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Beneath the howling fjords, the sky turns to stone

The wind is a serpent with iron teeth

Ash from the World Tree stains the snow

I carve runes into the bones of the slain

As the void chants in tongues older than frost

Freyja’s weeping drowns the moonlight

And Fenrir howls, chained in dreams of fire

Odin rides into shadow without spear or eye

His wolves feed on the echoes of fate

The Norns tangle the threads with wrath

I stand beneath the black canopy

A voice of death, an echo of roots

I am not man, I am not beast

I am storm-breath, born of void