Throne of the Hollow North (Nordic Metal Version)

[Intro – deep drones, funeral horns, slow marching drums] [Verse 1] The crown is colder than the grave, a hollow gift no blade could save. The Northwind cries with fractured breath— a kingdom poised on rust and death. The ravens perch on burning spires, their wings now ash, their eyes like pyres. They watch me walk the dying land, a ruler made of frost and sand. [Pre-Chorus] The silence climbs the mountain’s spine— even the gods have drawn the line. [Chorus] On the Throne of the Hollow North I stand, a fading echo ruling broken land. The storm won’t bow, the dead won’t sleep— I hold the vow, a promise I can’t keep. On the Throne where the last light dies, I see the truth behind the ravens’ eyes: The North is ending, cold and slow— and I am king of what I cannot hold. [Drop/Instrumental - Dark tone] [Verse 2] The rivers freeze but still they bleed, the ancient trees no longer heed. The spirits whisper through the stone: “You were never meant to rule alone.” I feel the weight of years undone, a frozen war I never won. The North devours its chosen heir— a crown of frost, a curse to bear. [Pre-Chorus] The land rejects the blood I claim— it knows my face, but not my name. [Chorus] On the Throne of the Hollow North I stay, though all that’s left is bone and grey. A broken storm, a dying sky— a king who rules but cannot try. On the Throne where the shadows breathe, I feel the ice beneath me seethe. A hollow crown, a winter slow— I reign the end of all I know. [Drop/Instrumental - deep Dark tone] [Bridge – whispered, icy, collapsing ambience] If the North must fall… let it fall with me. If the fire dies… may the dark be free. The ravens cry, but not for war— they cry because there is no more. [Final Chorus – heavier, darker, world-ending] On the Throne of the Hollow North I break, a monarch forged for winter’s sake. The frozen heart, the last command— to watch the end erase my land. On the Throne where the cold consumes, I cling to fading, dying runes. The North collapses, slow and sure— and I—its last—am not its cure. [Outro – wind dying, one raven calling faintly] The North… is quiet. The North…