He watched his father fall, a blade without a name,
a boy made of vengeance, a soul made of flame.
The viking dream was red, the ocean smelled of fear,
and Thorfinn swore an oath that festered year by year.
No home, no peace, no golden throne,
only the ghost that dug his bones.
Kill after kill, blood after blood,
drowning in rage that felt like mud.
I AM THE SON OF THE NORTH, THE WOLF WITHOUT A PACK,
I FOLLOWED THE DEMON, BUT HE NEVER GAVE ME MY BACK.
I WILL BUILD MY OWN FIELD, WITH NO AXE AND NO KING,
A LAND WITHOUT SWORDS, WHERE THE BELLS STOP RINGING.
Askelaad laughed, asked him what’s the gain,
a slave to his promise, a prisoner of pain.
"You kill for your father, but he’s not coming back,
you're just a wounded animal bleeding in the black."
The years became ice, the heart turned to frost,
every scar was a chapter of everything lost.
Then the dagger struck the demon, and Thorfinn stood still,
no purpose, no target, just an empty will.
But a slave has a name, and a slave has a dream,
not to conquer a kingdom, but to sow a new stream.
Vinland, Vinland, it whispers in the breeze,
no masters, no warriors, no death in the trees.
I AM THE SON OF THE NORTH, THE WOLF WHO LEARNED TO REST,
I ABANDON THE VALHALLA, I CHOOSE THE HUMBLE FEST.
NO VENGEANCE, NO GLORY, JUST SOIL AND SEED,
A LAND WITHOUT SWORDS, WHERE THE BROKEN ARE FREED.
So let the saga end, let the longboats burn,
Thorfinn walks a road where the tyrants never turn.
From a boy made of hate to a man made of land,
the true warrior’s weapon is an open hand
