Quiet for a second, then guitars and drums slam in together as one fast block.

Voice takes the center right away: daughter of Loki, queen of the dead.

The band doesn't clear out for her. That hard pulse just keeps carrying the next lines.

Barefoot in the land of the dead, and the riff is still walking you forward.

Shorter hits now: the weak, the fallen, the cowards, stacked right up to the name.

There it is. Hel, goddess of the rotten.

Bodies build the throne, then banned from Valhalla, ashes for the same seat.

Banned and ashes come back once more, then the lyric turns.

Prison for the bloodless, realm for the weak. Same march, colder room.

A dish named hunger, knife called famine. No extra flourish under it.

No new words for a stretch. Guitars and drums just keep that same narrow drive going.

Hel returns, fuller this time: I am Hel, and the throne lines lock back in.

Same Hel and throne couplet again. Less like a hook now, more like she's restating the rule.

Exiled from Asgard, then await me at the shore. First line that points outward.

After the shore, still no open space. The band stays tight and refuses to widen.

Half the face corrupted, the other flesh. You can hear both sides in the mix too.

Dragging a cadaver up frozen stairs, and the track still won't slow down for it.

Harbard across the river. Late gate, same hallway speed.

Waves break, then half living and half decayed.

Helheim finally gets said out loud, hordes echoing, waiting at the shore.

Mother of death, and that split line one last time.

The whole driven hold drops out fast.

Hard silence. After all that forward motion, the empty cut feels huge.

Just a faint hang left. The band doesn't come back.