The gods made us out of clay.
We answered with fire.
Sons of Clay take the oldest stories ever told and forge them into doom-weighted, choir-swept hard rock — heavy distorted guitars under orchestras, gritty voices trading lines with the dark.
The first record gathered the mortals who dared the gods, from Icarus to Prometheus. The second turned north, to the only myth where the gods themselves are doomed — and learn what mortals always knew. Everything ends.
“The gods were mortal all along.”
The fire cools. The north begins.
A faceless myth-metal project: no photoshoots, no frontman, no lore but the lore that's three thousand years old. Each album is one continuous saga, written to be heard in order — overture to epilogue, fire to ash.
Symphonic hard rock with doom weight — crushing guitars, full orchestra, choirs, voices from whisper to scream.
The myths told straight, from the side of the ones who burned for them. Victims, defiers, doomed gods.
Two records that answer each other — clay and fire, then ash and embers. The wheel turns. The tree grows.