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.
A scout burst through the doors, armor dented, breath ragged.
He strode past the throne without a backward glance.
And the Picts were about to learn why old men in taverns still whispered the name of the Barbarian King.
Behind him, the crown rolled off the cushion and struck the marble floor with a sound like a lost coin.