(Intro: A single, clean guitar melody—reverb-heavy and lonely. Fades into a low, distorted bass hum.) (Verse 1: Low, gravelly spoken delivery) The horizon didn't set, it just stayed red. A fever from the cradle of the sun, creeping up the spine of the world until the wells ran dry. We watched from the jagged coast, where the salt turns to needles in the air, as the silk roads turned to rivers of lead. He saw this in a bowl of water— the ink bleeding into the white, the southern fire meeting the northern sigh. (Pre-Chorus: Building tension, drums kicking in with a driving, syncopated beat) The wind from the pole is the only breath left. It carries the scent of burning sand and old circuitry. The compass is spinning, but the needle always points to the cold. (Chorus: Intense, melodic screaming—emotional and raw) WAKE THE GHOSTS OF THE IRON LATITUDE! The sky is a shroud of grey wool and static! We are the heirs of the silent tundra, standing on the edge of the burning map! Let the North Wind swallow the embers, let the frost bury the shame of the fathers! In the shadow of the monoliths, we wait! AQUILON! EXHALE! (Verse 2: Faster, more aggressive—dissonant guitars) They tore the borders with teeth made of glass. The tribes are gathering where the tracks end, trading rusted scrap for a moment of heat. The black rain fell on the vineyards, and the olive trees turned to charcoal overnight. Now we march through the ruins of a golden age, with eyes like frozen lakes, watching the smoke of the Great Furnace drift toward our shores. (Bridge: Sudden drop-out. Only a haunting, hollow synth and a distant, echoing drum hit) (Whispered) The sun is a memory. The oil is a grave. The ice is our only sanctuary. (Crescendo) THE ICE IS OUR ONLY SANCTUARY! (Outro: Fast, chaotic instrumentation that abruptly cuts to the sound of a howling wind) Let the winter claim the throne. Let the silence be the judge. The North remembers nothing. The North... is all that’s left
