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.
