Beneath the iron winter sky we sail,
Cold breath of gods upon our veiled trail.
Salt and rune on hands that forged the keel,
Singing thunder where the sea-wolves feel.
Oaths of ash and stone, our blood the seal,
Storm-forged brothers, never bend, never kneel.
Ravens over steel, calling us to rise,
Fire in the bow, thunder in our eyes.
Horn of the north, break the silence of the fjord,
We are the storm, the rune, the sword.
Fires of the long-hall burn the night,
Shadows of the past in wolfish light.
Ancestor voices hammer in the bone,
Songs of conquest, iron, and home.
We carve the names upon the tide and sky,
Let the world remember how heroes die.
Odin's whisper in the crack of dawn,
Spear and runes guide the path we spawn.
Come the winter, come the reaper's hand,
We fight like glaciers, we rise like land.
Banners black as midnight, edged in frost,
Bearing all our wanderings and the cost.
Children of the fjord, we ride the wave,
From frozen birth to scars beyond the grave.
Hear the anvils of the heavens strike the drum,
For glory calls — we answer, never numb.
Ravens wheel and bleed the sky of day,
Hear the sagas roar where sea meets spray.
Steel and story, ash and stone — we yield,
Forever carved upon the wind and field.