Conan

“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. “Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I

Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion and struck the marble floor with a sound like a lost coin. “Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I

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

Here’s a short piece written for Conan — capturing his voice, his world, and his relentless drive. The Weight of a Crown Not Wanted