The sun hung low over Ciudad Delgado, bleeding gold over the palace’s marble balconies. The square below overflowed with people — citizens, soldiers, and students waving crimson flags emblazoned with the golden jaguar of Monteluna. Loudspeakers crackled to life across the city as Generalissima María “La Fiera” Delgado stepped forward, a cigar in one hand, the other raised in salute.

“My children of Monteluna!” Her voice rolled over the crowd and through every radio and television. “The world looks upon us and trembles — not from fear, but from admiration! We were once a colony of cowards and beggars, and now… we are lions!”

The crowd erupted. Fireworks burst above the palace. María smiled, basking in the roar of adoration that was half genuine, half terrified. “They call me a dictator,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “But tell me, who else would love you enough to rule forever?”

She let the silence hang just long enough for the question to become a threat, then turned back into the palace.

Beyond the gilded doors, the air cooled. Her heels clicked across the polished marble of her bedroom, a chamber larger than most government buildings — gold drapes, velvet carpets, portraits of herself in various uniforms, some directly copied from real historical portraits replaced with her.