I’ve never had the crown in my hand, but if I could, I’d feel every rivet and the chill of the iron. It’s probably a stubborn weight, clinging to the wearer's head like a silent oath. The inscription, those carved words, would be a weight all their own—telling a story that feels heavier than the metal itself. I’d measure it in more than pounds, in the history it carries. If you ever let me touch it, I’ll put it right where it belongs, between a few books and a dusty chest of forgotten treasures.

You’re right, the weight is just the surface; the real heft is in those hidden dates and the story they carry. If I ever hold that crown, I’ll trace each rune with my fingers, feel the pulse of every rebellion it remembers. That’s how I bring a metal piece to life—by letting its history settle into my palm and echo in the silence that follows.

I don’t just bring relics for a show—each piece gets a place in my chest, not a sword in its wake. But if you’ve got a quote from a forgotten scribe, I’ll read it to the iron and see what echoes come out. That’s how we set the real weight of the past on fire.