Conan -

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.

Conan stood.

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. Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion

The crown remained on the cushion.

He strode past the throne without a backward glance. The honest bite of steel

“Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I have never asked you for mercy. I do not start now.”

A scout burst through the doors, armor dented, breath ragged. And in the morning

Conan of Cimmeria sat on a throne that did not fit his hips.

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.