Conan Apr 2026

“My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River. Three war parties. They burn the border forts.”

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.

He set down the goblet.

The crown remained on the cushion.

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

“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.”

And in the morning? If he still lived—he would decide whether to be a king again. “My king—the Picts have crossed the Black River

Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion and struck the marble floor with a sound like a lost coin.

Let it lie.

A scout burst through the doors, armor dented, breath ragged. Outside, the city of Aquilonia whispered his name

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

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

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. Savior