King of the north

I am but a name, born of the North.

Born of a Sweden not found on any map, but forged in legend and blood. In this age, our fate is bound to shifting powers. While foreign powers grip our lands, casting their shadow over both Norway and Sweden.
Our allies stand as steadfast as the mountains, ready to fulfill our agreement.

For now, I sleep. I forge. I gather silver and strength, for there is a calling.
It is distant still, like thunder beyond the horizon—but it draws nearer with each passing breath. And when that call is finally heard, we will answer.

My kin will rise as one.
The hammer will fall silent in the forge, the plow abandoned in the fields.
We will take up arms, not for glory alone, but for destiny.
For in this age, our purpose is clear: to cleanse our land of those who falsely claim it, to cast down the occupiers with fire in our veins and fury in our hearts.

Yet it is not hatred alone that drives us. It is love—deep and unyielding—for our open plains, our emerald forests, and our dark, whispering lakes.

This land is bound to us, as we are bound to it.

Let the bodies of our enemies fall and return to the earth, becoming the soil from which our future will grow.
From death, life.
From struggle, rebirth.

For the oath our forefathers swore to the gods of the old ways, so shall we live—and so shall we die—in the North.