The World Is Mine For The Taking-Chapter 1184 - 181 - The Death Of The King (1)

Myrcella’s POV

We are standing in the wake of my father.

He died two days ago, yet the room still feels like time stopped the moment his breath did. Everything smells faintly of incense and old flowers, and it was the kind meant to mask death but only make it more noticeable. The air is thick and heavy enough that it presses against my chest every time I breathe, like it’s asking me to feel something or anything.

The cause of death was ruled as poisoning.

A quiet word. A clinical one. Too clean for something that ended a life so abruptly.

The culprit hasn’t been found.

No one knows who did it. Or perhaps they know and simply aren’t saying it out loud yet. Either way, nothing has been resolved, and the silence surrounding the truth feels louder than any accusation.

My father’s body lies on the bed, arranged carefully and respectfully, as if the servants were afraid of disturbing him even now. He looks like he’s sleeping. Peaceful. Calm. Almost gentle. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was simply resting after another long day of ruling a kingdom that never truly loved him.

My father was old.

Very old.

And sickly, too.

His body had been failing him long before poison ever entered the picture. Many ministers whispered—some openly—that he wouldn’t last another year. They spoke of his health like it was a schedule and something to be anticipated and prepared for. A countdown rather than a life.

But I suppose someone didn’t want to wait.

So he was poisoned.

None of us saw it coming. Or maybe we did, and we just refused to acknowledge it. In a court filled with ambition, envy, and impatience, death always lingered in the background. Still, knowing that didn’t make it easier to accept.

Even the Commander looked shaken by all of this.

She stood stiffly near the edge of the room, her uniform immaculate, her posture rigid, yet her expression betrayed her. Her eyes darted more than usual, her jaw clenched tighter. She must have never imagined that something like this would happen, at least not now and not like this. If someone as guarded as her could be caught off guard, then it meant the situation was far worse than it appeared.

And yet, this wasn’t the only problem pressing down on us.

There was something else. Something heavier.

There was no king on the throne.

A kingdom without a king was nothing but a formless mass. It was a crowd without direction. It was a body without a head. People didn’t know how to act when no one stood at the top to tell them what was right, what was wrong, or what was expected. Order relied on the crown, even when the crown was flawed.

Right now, it seemed inevitable that I would be appointed Queen.

There was no one else.

No one more suitable. No one more visible.

If not me, then who would lead them?

And yet, I knew acceptance wouldn’t come easily.

The current Queen—my mother—would act as ruler for now. The de facto monarch, at least until someone was officially placed on the throne. But even that role felt temporary and fragile. Whispers already moved through the court like a disease, debates forming over who should replace her, who deserved the position more, who would benefit the kingdom—or themselves—the most.

My mother was never born to rule.

She came from a ducal family and she was raised in comfort but not power. Her marriage to my father had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with debt. My grandfather owed my father greatly, and the price was her hand.

There was no romance in their union.

No warmth.

No shared bed.

My mother never loved my father. And my father never loved her.

They slept in separate rooms from the very beginning. Not once—not a single time—did they share the same bed. Their relationship existed only in name and duty, nothing more.

And I...

I was born not from love, but from an experiment.

A calculated decision.

Something planned, measured, and executed.

I wasn’t created the way children usually are.

Even with their blood running through my veins, I often felt like nothing more than an ornament. A symbol. Something pretty to look at, useful for politics, but ultimately hollow.

Now, standing here at my father’s wake, surrounded by mourners and candles and forced solemnity, I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.

I searched for grief.

For sadness.

For regret.

There was nothing.

Not even a flicker.

It would have been natural to cry. To ache. To feel a hole where he used to be. But all I felt was a strange, empty stillness. As if my heart had already decided long ago that this moment wouldn’t matter.

"The King did his very best to maintain the kingdom for generations," my mother said softly, her voice steady but distant. "Though I believe many of his decisions were questionable, and I can’t say I ever agreed with how he handled the kingdom’s affairs. I wouldn’t even call him a good king. But he preserved the kingdom’s interests for as long as he could. That was something I always respected about him. I never loved him—but I respected him."

Her words hung in the air, honest and unpolished.

"Was he... ever a good king?" I asked.

She exhaled slowly, as if weighing the truth before letting it out.

"He wasn’t a good king. Not by any standard people like to praise," she said. "And he certainly wasn’t a good person. But he was capable. And in his own way, he tried. He did what he believed was best for the kingdom. Unfortunately, none of it was ever appreciated. Over time, he grew tired. Disillusioned. Bitter. When you give everything and receive nothing in return, that tends to happen. Considering how long he ruled, I suppose it was inevitable."

"I see..."

A king whose efforts went unnoticed would naturally grow resentful. If every sacrifice was ignored, if every decision was met with criticism instead of understanding, then the crown would feel less like an honor and more like a curse.

"He would’ve been a good king if the people liked him," my mother continued. "But they didn’t. And that raises the question—did their hatred make him a bad king? Or did it turn him into one?"

Despite never loving him, my mother didn’t seem indifferent to his death. There was concern in her eyes—not personal grief, but something broader. Something heavier.

"Right now," she said quietly, "I’m more worried about what comes next. About the kingdom. Someone will try to take advantage of this chaos. I’m certain of it."

She was right.

With the throne left empty, ambition would rise.

And many would be more than willing to seize the opportunity.