Chapter 3: Shadow of the Sun

“The sun sets, but its fire lingers.”

The chapel of the Palacio del Sol was silent, save for the faint crackle of candle flames. It was an intimate space, cloaked in shadows that stretched from the high vaulted ceiling to the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the heady scent of frankincense and wax, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the gilded casket at its center.

Isabella sat before her father’s coffin, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on the edge of the cool, ornate wood. The panel over his face was closed, hiding the brutal wounds that had taken his life. The guerillas had targeted his car with concentrated machine gun fire, she was told, tearing all within into pieces.

"Father," she whispered, her voice low and steady, though it carried a raw edge. Her words dissolved into the stillness of the room. “You told me once that weakness was a luxury we couldn’t afford, that Montesoro was a lamb among wolves. I always doubted you, father, only seeing you for your strength, your indominable will. But now... I understand. Now I know how fragile this all is. But I swear I will make them pay for what they have done to you, father. To us. I swear it, with my blood, with your blood. We will be avenged."

Her fingers traced the Montesoran flag draped over the coffin, its embroidered sun glittering faintly in the dim light. The memories of her childhood surfaced unbidden: his booming voice commanding respect, the crisp scent of his cigars, the shadow he cast over her every step. Now that the shadow was gone, leaving her exposed in the harsh light, she realised he had always been trying to protect her, shielding her from the realities of their world.

But the truth was brutal, the world cold and cruel, and it would devour her if she didn't show her fangs.

“I will not fail,” she murmured, her eyes lowered, gazing at where his face would be through the solid wood. “Not you, not Montesoro.”

The heavy doors creaked open behind her. Emiko entered, her footsteps soft on the marble, the rustle of her silk mourning dress the only sound. She placed a hand on Isabella’s shoulder.

“They are waiting,” her mother said, her voice calm but firm.

Isabella rose, smoothing her dress with one last glance at the coffin. “Then let's begin,” she said, turning toward the door. “Today is as much mine as it is his.”

The procession moved slowly through the heart of Valverde, the gilded coffin perched atop a black-draped military vehicle, its destination the Cathedral del Sol Invicto, of the Unconquered Sun, where his body shall be laid to rest for eternity. Soldiers in full ceremonial dress marched alongside it, their boots striking the cobblestones in synchronized precision, the sharp cadence echoing through the streets.

Crowds lined the roads, a black sea of mourners stretching as far as the eye could see. Some held the likeness of Julián Reyes, others waved small flags, the sun emblazoned on it fluttering weakly in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of bodies pressed together and the faint, acrid tang of diesel fumes from the military vehicles closing the streets and herding the crowd.

From the Palacio del Sol, Isabella watched the scene unfold below. The afternoon sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long, golden rays across the city. The light caught the gilded dome of the palace, illuminating her silhouette as she stepped onto the central balcony, overlooking the grand plaza where she will be addressing the nation. Below her, the crowd stilled, their faces tilted upward. Those that had the privilege to gaze upon her in person were among the most important in the country, comprising of electoral delegates, foreign dignitaries, economic elites and other notables from all branches of the regime. Along the streets outside and across the country, speakers crackled to life, carrying her voice to the hushed masses, an almost sacred silence settling over Montesoro.

Her black dress clung to her skin like a shroud, heavy and constricting, the lace neckline itching against her collarbone. Her long hair, normally flowing down her back in beautiful curls, was tied into a braid, smooth and taut, feeling like a leash down her back, keeping her bound to the role she could not escape.

She paused, taking a moment to drink in the sight before her. The Plaza Libertad, where her father first announced his Presidency following the coup, stretched wide, choked with a sea of black-clad mourners whose faces blurred into a singular mass of grief and uncertainty. The only splashes of color were the golden armbands of palace guards stationed every few feet, their rifles held at rigid attention.

When she finally spoke, her voice rang out, rich and resonant, each word magnified until it seemed to reverberate off the walls of every building in Valverde. The setting sun blazed behind her, wrapping her in its dying glow, casting her shadow long and imposing over her subjects. For those standing below, it must have felt like God himself had pulled opened the skies and descended, her voice an echo of divine right.