“Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I have never asked you for mercy. I do not start now.”
His bare feet—calloused from a thousand battlefields—rested on the mosaic of a serpent he’d crushed with his own hands. Outside, the city of Aquilonia whispered his name like a prayer and a curse. King. Barbarian. Savior. Tyrant.
And in the morning? If he still lived—he would decide whether to be a king again.
The wine was sour. The women’s laughter, tin. The torches in the hall guttered like frightened things. “Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I
Tonight, there would be blood and fire and the old, clean joy of battle.
Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion and struck the marble floor with a sound like a lost coin.
He remembered the cold of his homeland. The sting of snow in his lungs. The honest bite of steel. Not this velvet cage of crowns and couriers. Tyrant
He reached for the hilt of his father’s sword—the one that had tasted the blood of wolves, serpents, and sorcerers. The weight of it felt truer than any scepter.
The crown remained on the cushion.
“My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River. Three war parties. They burn the border forts.” clean joy of battle. Behind him
Conan stood.
He set down the goblet.
Conan of Cimmeria sat on a throne that did not fit his hips.
And the Picts were about to learn why old men in taverns still whispered the name of the Barbarian King.
Here’s a short piece written for Conan — capturing his voice, his world, and his relentless drive. The Weight of a Crown Not Wanted
