The wine was sour. The women’s laughter, tin. The torches in the hall guttered like frightened things.
Conan of Cimmeria sat on a throne that did not fit his hips.
A scout burst through the doors, armor dented, breath ragged. The wine was sour
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.
Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion and struck the marble floor with a sound like a lost coin. Conan of Cimmeria sat on a throne that did not fit his hips
The crown remained on the cushion.
“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.” Outside, the city of Aquilonia whispered his name
“Crom,” he growled to the empty hall, “I have never asked you for mercy. I do not start now.”
But for now… for now, he was simply Conan. A thief who stole a kingdom. A warrior who had never learned to kneel.