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The void Beckons,
In the shadow of the black sun,
All shall kneel before the forst,
Where night reigns eternal.

Cursed is the flame, the dying breath,
A fleeting spark in the frozen sky,
Where the frost consumes all life,
No salvation, no dawn, now die.

In the depths of the ancient woods,
where they whisper words of death,
I carve a sign of eternal night,
in blood and ice with my final breath.

Eternal frost, harbinger of doom,
beneath the spires of endless night.
I ascend the throne of desolation,
In the grip of winters blight.

Whispers of the forgotten,
echoes in the ice.
The void is calling.

A storm of blades, the northern winds,
carve the flesh from bone and soul,
in the tempests eye I am reborn.
A ghost of cold, beyond control.

Eternal frost, harbinger of doom,
beneath the spires of endless night.
I ascend the throne of desolation,
In the grip of winters blight.

Wrath of ancient cold,
tears from the flesh of the weak,
in the heart of the storm,
the flesh speaks.

Eternal frost, harbinger of doom,
beneath the spires of endless night.
I ascend the throne of desolation,
In the grip of winters blight.

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