Here’s a short piece written for Conan — capturing his voice, his world, and his relentless drive. The Weight of a Crown Not Wanted
“Let them come,” Conan said, and his smile was the edge of an axe. “I was not made for thrones. I was made for this.” Here’s a short piece written for Conan —
The crown remained on the cushion.
“Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I have never asked you for mercy. I do not start now.” I was made for this
Conan of Cimmeria sat on a throne that did not fit his hips. He remembered the cold of his homeland
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.
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.