The World Is Mine For The Taking-Chapter 1187 - 181 - The Death Of The King (4)

After that, the announcer finally lifted the torch in his hand.

The flame flickered weakly at first, reacting to the air around it, before stabilizing into a steady burn. The light cast long, trembling shadows across the stone floor, stretching and warping the figures of everyone present. Slowly and deliberately, he walked forward, each step echoing through the vast space.

When he reached the platform where my father lay, he lowered the torch until its edge brushed against the prepared surface. There was a brief moment where nothing happened. It was just a quiet, almost suffocating pause. Then, as if answering an unspoken command, the fire caught.

It spread quickly.

The platform had been arranged with dry wood, oils, and other materials meant to burn easily. The flames crawled outward, licking along the edges before climbing higher. There was no struggle and no resistance. Everything ignited exactly as it was meant to.

The fire grew, and with it came heat. It was thick, heavy, and pressing against the skin. The smell of burning wood mixed with something far more unpleasant and something unmistakably human.

The announcer took several slow steps back, putting distance between himself and the rising blaze. His job was done. He said nothing more.

And so we watched.

No one cried.

The flames wrapped around my father’s body, creeping along fabric and flesh alike. The fire moved methodically, almost patiently, as if it had all the time in the world. There was no rush. Just a steady, consuming advance.

He had been called magnanimous. Kind. A ruler beloved by his people.

But no one here truly believed that.

If anything, the silence spoke louder than any tears could have. No sobs. No shaking shoulders. No whispered prayers. Just stillness.

He was not magnanimous. He was not kind. Anyone who had truly known him understood that much. His generosity had always been calculated and his kindness conditional. When it suited him, he could appear benevolent. When it didn’t, he was cold, ruthless, and unyielding.

Perhaps that was why no one mourned openly.

As a king, kindness was often seen as weakness. A ruler who showed too much mercy invited exploitation. A king who ruled with a soft hand rarely ruled for long. Strength mattered more. Authority mattered more.

And my father had ruled with authority above all else.

If anyone should have been crying, it should have been his mistresses.

Yet they were not here.

They never would be.

This place—the Hall, the platform, the ceremony itself—was reserved only for those of noble or royal blood. Titles mattered here. Lineage mattered. No amount of intimacy, no whispered promises behind closed doors, could grant them entry.

They had shared his bed, his secrets, and perhaps even his affection, but they had never shared his blood.

And so, they were excluded.

The fire continued to burn.

It consumed flesh first. The flames flared higher as they found more to devour, crackling softly in the heavy air. Heat rippled outward, distorting the view, making everything seem unreal, like a scene glimpsed through water.

Time passed, but no one moved.

The fire grew stronger and relentless. Eventually, it reached bone. Even then, it did not falter. It burned and burned, reducing everything down piece by piece.

The flames showed no sign of weakening.

There were still no tears.

The only sound was the fire itself. The low roar as well as the occasional sharp crack as something gave way. It was strangely hypnotic, horrifying and mundane all at once.

We watched for half an hour.

Then an hour.

Then two.

Minutes blurred together until time lost its meaning. The heat remained constant, oppressive, and wrapping around us like a suffocating blanket. No one spoke. No one looked away.

Only when the fire had done its work was it finally extinguished.

What remained was barely recognizable.

The bones had been burned until they were fragile, brittle enough to crumble at the slightest pressure. What once had been a king—commanding, feared, and obeyed—was now nothing more than ash.

As his family, we stepped forward.

The act itself felt strangely mechanical. We gathered the remains carefully, almost reverently, placing the ashes into an urn. There was no ceremony beyond that.

Just completion.

After a while, everything was finished.

The urn was placed upon one of the podiums within the Hall of Kings, aligned neatly with the others. Row upon row of rulers who had once shaped the kingdom, now reduced to identical vessels.

With that, my father took his place among them.

After some brief pleasantries—hollow words exchanged out of obligation—and formal condolences that carried little real emotion, the ceremony ended.

The Hall of Kings was closed.

Its doors would remain shut until another king joined them, and that day would come sooner rather than later.

For now, the question that lingered in everyone’s mind was simple, yet terrifying.

How would the kingdom move forward?

***

Leon’s POV

Several weeks had passed since the king’s death.

On the surface, things seemed... normal. The kingdom still functioned. The streets were still busy. People still went about their lives.

But beneath that thin layer of normalcy, something felt off.

The queen had taken control, ruling in her husband’s absence, but the atmosphere had changed. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, yet it was there. It was a tension that clung to the air, and it was subtle but unmistakable.

Plans were being made. Deals whispered behind closed doors. Power shifting, slowly, and quietly.

And that was what worried me the most.

Staying in the kingdom was starting to feel dangerous. Not because of open conflict, but because of how fragile everything felt. Like a single wrong move could send the balance crashing down. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Myrcella had been under enormous pressure.

Everything seemed to be hitting her at once, without giving her room to breathe.

Her work at the academy wasn’t progressing the way she wanted. No matter how much effort she put in, results were slow to appear. On top of that, her father’s death—and the instability it caused—was constantly hanging over her.

The kingdom was facing internal problems from all sides, and somehow, she felt responsible for all of it.

She barely rested anymore.

Dark circles had formed under her eyes. Her movements were sharper and more hurried. Even when she sat still, it felt like her mind was racing and never stopping.

"I’m getting worried about her..." Titania said softly.

Her voice lacked its usual brightness.

Even Titania, who almost always found something positive to latch onto, couldn’t ignore what was happening. She watched Myrcella closely, concern etched plainly across her face.

"I think she’s going to collapse at this point."

"Yeah," I replied, exhaling slowly.

I felt the same way.

Myrcella was pushing herself far too hard, working as if she could solve everything by sheer effort alone. She was burning herself out, piece by piece.

The end of the academic year was approaching fast, and with it came the weight of her promise. She had vowed to convince the academy to allow all cadets to graduate as magic knights.

So far, she had nothing solid to show for it.

Pressure came from every direction. Starting with the faculty, nobles, expectations, and then her own standards. And with her father having been assassinated, it was no wonder she was struggling.

Anyone would be.

"Well," I said after a moment, breaking the silence, "I’m going to have to consider a few things if I want to help her."

Titania turned toward me, listening.

"First, I need to investigate the administrators. Dig up whatever I can. If I find something solid, I might be able to force them to agree to her terms."

She frowned slightly.

"You’re planning to blackmail them?" she asked. "I mean... it would work. She’d definitely win. But I don’t think Myrcella would appreciate that kind of help."

She wasn’t wrong.

Myrcella was stubborn in that way. She wanted to earn her victories, not have them handed to her through underhanded methods. Even if it helped her, she’d probably resent it.

Given how hard she was trying to do this on her own terms, using nothing but effort and resolve, any shortcut might feel like betrayal to her.

And that made the choice far more complicated than I wanted it to be.