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Chapter Text

The desert wind carried the spice-smell even here, through the narrow slits of the citadel’s windows. Paul stood with his hands clasped behind him, looking out over the endless expanse of Arrakis. To the south, he could almost imagine the movements of his legions—Fremen fighters now turned soldiers of empire—sweeping across the sands like fire.

The jihad had begun. Already, blood spilled in his name on worlds he had never walked.

“Muad’Dib.”

The word, spoken softly, belonged to none of the reverent voices he heard in the halls. It was Chani’s voice, warm, unceremonious. She alone could call him by title and strip it of weight.

He turned. She stood in the chamber’s shadows, her stillsuit half unfastened, her hair loose from the long braids of the sietch. She looked like the desert itself—unyielding, eternal.

“They chant your name in the streets,” she said. “I heard them on my way here. Children playing at Fremen warriors, their cries echoing: Muad’Dib, Muad’Dib.”

Paul’s jaw tightened. “And soon they will cry it as they burn cities in my honor.”

Chani came closer, her bare feet whispering against the stone. She studied him, her eyes sharp as the crysknife at her belt. “You saw this. You knew it would come.”

“I saw too much.” He shook his head. “There are futures where humanity drowns in its own blood. Futures where my name becomes a curse. Yet every path I choose, every word I speak, only drives us closer.”

Chani reached out, touched his sleeve. “And what of the future where we are free? Where our people thrive? Do your visions never show us that?”

For a heartbeat, Paul allowed himself to imagine it: Chani at his side, the sietch alive with laughter, children chasing each other in play instead of training for war. He had seen it once, a fragile branch in the storm of prescience. But to follow it meant turning away from the Golden Path—an abandonment of everything the spice had shown him.

His silence was answer enough.

Chani withdrew her hand, but her voice held no reproach. “Then I will stand with you, whatever the path. Let the whole Imperium plot and scheme—I am yours, Paul. As I have always been.”

Paul looked at her then, really looked, and the weight of empire pressed less heavily on his shoulders.

“They call you concubine,” he said, almost bitterly. “History will try to erase you, Chani.”

Her lips curved in a fierce smile. “Then we will write our own history. In sand and blood, if we must.”

The chamber filled with the muted scrape of sandals and the rustle of heavy cloaks. Three men entered, each wearing the flowing robes of off-world nobility, their shoulders draped in embroidered sashes that glittered faintly with gold thread. Behind them came a retinue of scribes carrying slates and rolls of translucent maps.

The foremost bowed low. “Muad’Dib. We are the chosen architects of Kaitain, summoned to serve your vision. The Imperium looks to Arrakis now, and it is fitting that your seat reflect the glory of your reign.”

Paul inclined his head, his expression unreadable. He noted how their eyes flickered about the chamber, cataloging its austere Fremen simplicity with unconcealed distaste.

“You wish to raise a palace,” Paul said. It was not a question.

“Yes, sire,” the architect said eagerly. “A monument to endure beyond ages, rivaling even the Imperial Palace on Kaitain. Gardens of emerald and sapphire pools, colonnades carved from marble brought from ten worlds—”

Paul lifted a hand and the man faltered.

“I will not bring Kaitain to Arrakis,” Paul said. His voice carried the quiet weight of judgment. “This is not a world to be gilded and drowned in excess. Arrakis is desert. Harsh. Pure. The people must see their emperor honors the sand, not hides from it in marble halls.”

The architects exchanged uneasy glances. One dared to press further. “My lord, the Imperium will expect grandeur. Foreign ambassadors must be awed. To show them only mudbrick and dust is—”

A dry laugh came from the shadows of the chamber. Chani, who had remained silent at the edge, her stillsuit blending with the stone, stepped forward.

“You speak of awe as if it is stone and water,” she said. Her eyes, sharp as flint, swept over the architects. “But on Arrakis, awe is measured in survival. In the mastery of desert and sandworm. Do you think a palace of marble will impress my people more than a stronghold that endures the scouring winds?”

The men stiffened, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged by a woman in such plain garb.

“Concubine,” one began, then faltered under Paul’s sudden glare.

“She speaks with my voice,” Paul said. His words fell heavy as stone. “Mark it well: there will be a palace. But it will rise from the desert itself, born of its strength, not imposed from without. The shape of the city will be Fremen. Its heart will be Arrakeen.”

The architects bowed again, more stiffly this time. “As you command, Muad’Dib.”

Morning light streamed through the narrow windows, casting long golden bars across the chamber floor. The architects stood ready with their slates spread before them, diagrams and sketches floating like pale ghosts in the air. Paul moved among the images, his hands folded in thought, the weight of prescience pressing behind his eyes.

“The palace must be Arrakeen,” Paul said at last. His tone was quiet, deliberate. “It must speak of desert strength, not Kaitain’s decadence. Stone quarried from the Shield Wall. Water storage hidden in its foundations. Wide courtyards for the sky, where the wind can sweep clean the dust.”

One architect inclined his head. “Yes, my lord. But there must be balance. A seat of empire must awe. We propose soaring towers, gardens raised by hidden reservoirs—”

“Gardens,” Paul interrupted. His voice was sharp. “Gardens are waste. My people know the value of each drop. If they see me wallowing in green while they sip moisture from stillsuits, they will call me tyrant.”

From the edge of the chamber, Chani spoke. She had not been invited into the circle, but her voice cut clear.

“Let the palace itself be the garden,” she said. “Walls patterned like dunes, reflecting the sun. Roofs curved like the backs of sandworms. A fortress born of desert, not an oasis stolen from it.”

The architects shifted uncomfortably. One of them gave a thin smile, too polite to be honest. “Concubine, these matters are… delicate. Symbolism has its place, yes. But architecture requires mastery beyond desert fancy. Leave such things to those trained in the craft.”

Paul’s gaze snapped to the man, his eyes cold. For a heartbeat, the chamber seemed to tremble with unspoken fury.

Chani stood unmoved. Her expression did not harden, did not soften—she merely regarded them with the calm of one who had survived sandstorms, sieges, and the endless desert. But Paul saw the flicker in her eyes, the wound their dismissal cut.

“She speaks with the wisdom of the desert,” Paul said, his voice measured but iron-clad. “And I would sooner trust her instincts than a thousand scrolls from Kaitain. You will draw plans again, and you will listen.”

The architects bowed stiffly, chastened but not humbled.

When they were gone, Paul turned to Chani. “They will never accept you,” he said softly. “Not the Landsraad, not the Bene Gesserit, not even these men of stone.”

Chani’s smile was small, sharp. “Let them sneer. I am Fremen. Their scorn is lighter than sand in the wind. But you—” She touched his arm gently. “You must never doubt that I see what they cannot.”

Paul covered her hand with his own. “I never doubt, Chani. It is they who are blind.”

Outside, the wind rose, scouring the city. Within, the first outlines of a palace were being redrawn—not in marble and gardens, but in the image of desert power, whispered by a woman they dismissed as concubine.

The architects returned at dawn. Their robes trailed behind them as they entered, and again the chamber filled with the hum of slates being unrolled, patterns traced in light and sand across the stone floor.

“This, Muad’Dib,” the lead architect said, voice smooth with practiced reverence, “is a palace that honors Arrakis.”

Before Paul, an image shimmered: walls carved with dune-like ridges, towers shaped to catch the wind and funnel it into hidden reservoirs, courtyards open to the blazing sun. No jeweled gardens, no ostentatious fountains. It was stark, commanding, born of sand and stone.

Paul studied it silently. He could feel the currents of history tugging at him even here—an emperor’s seat shaping the destiny of worlds.

“It is austere,” Paul said at last, “and that is its strength.”

One of the younger architects smiled, a touch too quickly. “Of course, my lord. Though some might say it lacks… the refinements of Kaitain. But then—” His eyes flicked, sly, toward Chani, who sat at the chamber’s edge with quiet dignity. “One does not expect refinement from the desert.”

A faint chuckle rippled among the men.

Paul’s gaze hardened, but he did not speak. Instead, Chani rose slowly. Her stillsuit whispered with the motion, her hand resting lightly on the crysknife at her hip—not in threat, but in presence.

“Refinement,” she said softly, “is to drink from a cup when water is plentiful. Strength is to live when there is none. Which do you think will endure when the desert reclaims us all?”

Her words fell into silence, sharp as a blade. The architects shifted uncomfortably.

Paul’s voice, when it came, was low and final. “Mark this: the desert is refinement. Its austerity is beauty. And she”—he gestured toward Chani—“speaks with my authority. If you cannot respect her counsel, you have no place shaping my vision.”

The men bowed, more stiffly than before, and gathered their slates. Their murmurs lingered like shadows as they withdrew.

When the chamber was quiet again, Paul turned to Chani. A muscle worked in his jaw. “They will test you, always.”

Chani met his eyes, steady as the horizon. “Then let them test. The desert does not bend to the wind. It teaches the wind to shape itself around the dune.”

Chapter Text

From the high balcony of the citadel, the desert stretched like a living scroll—its sands shifting and whispering under the morning sun. Below, the foundations of the new palace had begun. Lines of workers moved with methodical precision, Fremen and off-world masons laboring side by side. The clang of stone against stone echoed faintly, swallowed by the vast silence of Arrakis.

Chani leaned against the carved balustrade, her stillsuit hood pushed back, the wind tangling her dark hair. Beside her stood Alia, no longer the wide-eyed child she should have been, but a strange presence wrapped in a small body. Her gaze, too sharp for six years, followed the movements below with unsettling intensity.

“They build as though the desert will wait for them,” Alia murmured. Her voice carried a lilt of amusement, though her eyes remained cold.

Chani glanced down at her. “Stone may endure longer than flesh. Even the desert cannot sweep away all traces.”

Alia tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Stone endures, yes. But men forget. And when they forget, palaces crumble faster than dunes.”

Chani let silence answer, watching the laborers raise walls patterned to mimic shifting sand. She remembered the architects’ scorn, their careful sneers. Even now, she could sense their touch in the design—concessions to “awe” and “refinement”—though Paul had carved away their worst indulgences.

“Their hands build what his vision commands,” Chani said at last. “But the shape will be ours, Alia. The desert’s. His.”

Alia’s eyes flicked up, bright and strange. “And yours, Chani. They do not see it yet, but you are written into these stones.”

A gust of wind swept over the balcony, tugging at their robes, carrying with it the smell of cut stone, sweat, and spice. Chani’s hand tightened on the railing. For a moment she felt the pulse of something larger than palace or city—a rhythm that tied Paul’s empire to the sand, to the people, to her own heartbeat.

Below, workers raised the first arch of the palace. A cheer went up. Dust rose like incense into the sky.

Alia laughed suddenly, soft and knowing, a sound far older than her years. “The Desert Queen watches her kingdom grow.”

Chani turned sharply, but Alia was already looking away, her small fingers tracing idle patterns on the stone.

The great hall of Arrakeen echoed with voices. Nobles in silks and jewels stood in uneasy clusters, their laughter too loud, their whispers too sharp. At the center, banners of Muad’Dib hung heavy, their stark desert sigils a jarring contrast to the flowing crests of the Landsraad.

Paul entered with the measured stride of one accustomed to command. His stillsuit was hidden beneath a mantle of deep indigo, the color of spice, the color of power. At his side walked Chani, plain in her desert garb, her presence quiet but unyielding.

The nobles’ eyes slid to her and then away, their disdain veiled but unmistakable. To them, she was not wife, not queen—merely concubine.

A murmur ran through the chamber. One whispered word carried, sharp as a blade: Fremen.

Paul’s gaze swept the hall, silencing the noise. He raised a hand, and the room stilled.

“Lords of the Landsraad,” he said, his voice carrying across the stone, “you are welcome on Arrakis. This world is now the heart of the Imperium. And you will see how its heart beats.”

His words were both greeting and warning.

At his side, Chani’s chin lifted. She felt the weight of their eyes upon her, dismissive, assessing. She let them look. She was desert-born. She had stared down sandstorms that could strip flesh from bone. These perfumed nobles were nothing.

Still, as she glanced at Paul, she saw the flicker of strain in his jaw. He carried the burden of empire, visions of jihad pressing at the edge of every choice. And already, the tide of contempt for her was rising in this hall.

The council chamber had been hastily refitted from an old Harkonnen hall—bare walls still bore faint scorch-marks from battles past, and the heavy table was carved from local stone, rough at the edges. It was not Kaitain’s elegance, but it was Paul’s throne room now.

Around the table sat representatives of the great Houses, Bene Gesserit sisters in muted robes, and the Guild’s envoy, his eyes hidden in shadow. Their postures varied—resentful, wary, calculating—but all carried the taut stillness of predators in a cage.

Paul entered with measured calm. He did not take the high seat immediately, but paused, letting their gazes rest on him. Chani followed, her stillsuit hidden beneath a desert robe, her steps light but assured. She crossed to Paul’s side and stood a pace behind him.

Murmurs rustled like dry leaves. One noble muttered too loudly, “Concubine in the council?” Another whispered, “It begins—Fremen superstition in government.”

Paul sat at last, his voice carrying like a blade drawn from its sheath:
“She is here because I will it.”

The chamber stilled, though tension remained thick in the air.

A Bene Gesserit sister—tall, her face serene but her eyes sharp—folded her hands. “Muad’Dib, tradition dictates councils of state remain free of—domestic influence. The Empire must see impartial rule.”

Chani’s lips curved in the faintest smile. Before Paul could speak, she stepped forward.
“Impartial rule?” she said softly. “You mean rule untouched by the desert. By the voices of those who bled for it.”

Her eyes swept the table. “These walls stand because Fremen warriors gave their lives. The spice flows because our people mastered sandworm and storm. And yet you speak of impartiality, as though the desert itself should have no voice in its own fate.”

The nobles shifted uneasily. Some sneered, others glanced at Paul to see if he would rebuke her.

One lord, dressed in pale Kaitain silk, leaned forward with a mocking smile. “Your desert wisdom is… colorful, concubine. But governance is not raiding caravans or teaching children to sip from stillsuits. It requires craft. Patience. Refinement.”

A ripple of laughter passed around the table.

Paul’s knuckles whitened against the stone armrest. He spoke evenly, but his tone was iron:
“Take care, my lord. The desert teaches patience sharper than any tutor on Kaitain. And Chani is no ornament to be dismissed. She is my counsel.”

Silence fell, heavy and brittle. The Guild envoy’s eyes glowed faintly from his shadowed hood, unreadable. The Bene Gesserit sister tilted her head, calculating, storing the exchange for later.

The council chamber settled into uneasy order. Slates and tablets were laid flat, voices softened into measured tones, though the air was still thick with disdain.

A Guild envoy spoke first, his voice hollow from the folds of his stillsuit hood:
“The raids must cease. Your Fremen warbands strike at merchant convoys beyond Arrakis. Spice shipments are delayed. The Guild does not tolerate disruption.”

A noble from House Thorvald slammed his ringed hand on the table.
“My House has lost three freighters in as many weeks. This jihad spreads too far, too fast. Already it threatens stability.”

Paul’s expression did not change, though the prescient weight pressed harder behind his eyes. So it begins, he thought. The tide of jihad would not be halted by protest or decree. Yet still they came to him, demanding the impossible.

He said only: “The Fremen fight as they have always fought. The Imperium is merely learning the measure of their strength.”

“Strength?” sneered another lord. “Barbarism. The Imperium cannot be ruled by sand-rats who mistake raiding for policy.”

The insult hung in the chamber. Chani’s eyes narrowed, but before Paul could speak, she stepped forward.

“You call it barbarism,” she said, her voice steady, “but to us, it is survival. Raids are not chaos—they are discipline. Fremen know what you do not: how to strike swiftly, how to conserve what is precious. If you would see fewer raids, then bind the warriors to purpose. Give them stewardship over the very spice routes they guard with their lives. Make them keepers, not outlaws.”

A murmur rippled around the table—startled, dismissive, uneasy.

The noble who had mocked her earlier gave a sharp laugh. “Stewardship? Entrust the most precious commodity in the universe to desert savages? Better to give a sandworm the Emperor’s crown!”

Laughter followed, brittle and cruel.

Paul’s voice cut through it like a knife.
“You speak lightly of sandworms, my lord. Without them, your Houses would choke on dust. Without Fremen, you would not sit here alive. Remember that.”

The laughter died. Silence returned, tense and bristling.

Chani stood calm, but her heart burned. She had offered wisdom, drawn from the marrow of the desert, and they had scorned it. Yet in Paul’s defense, in his acknowledgment, there was a glimmer of vindication. He had not silenced her. He had let her voice ring in the council, even against their derision.

The nobles’ laughter still clung to the air when a Bene Gesserit sister rose gracefully from her seat. She bowed her head toward Paul, her every motion precise, measured, calculated.

“Muad’Dib,” she said, her voice smooth as stillwater. “It is not for the Sisterhood to dispute your right to rule. Yet governance requires balance, the tempering hand of wisdom. That is why dynastic law exists. Why alliances endure. Why your union with Princess Irulan was—” she paused delicately, “—necessary.”

Chani’s breath stilled. The words were not an attack, but a knife cloaked in courtesy.

The sister’s eyes slid, cool and unhurried, to where Chani stood. “Concubines may have their place. Comfort. Devotion. Even counsel, in private. But empires are not shaped in shadows. To confuse intimacy with authority—ah, that is dangerous.”

The hall was silent, every gaze fixed on the confrontation. Paul’s hand tightened on the armrest. He could feel the trap—the Sisterhood pressing their old breeding designs, trying to diminish Chani without ever speaking her name.

Chani stepped forward before he could speak. Her voice was low, but the desert cut in every syllable.

“Dangerous?” she said. “What is dangerous is to think bloodlines build empires. You speak of balance, yet you forget the storm that swept your Emperor from Kaitain. Was that storm born of dynastic law? Or was it born of the desert, of a people who endured where others perished?”

A ripple of unease passed through the council.

Chani’s gaze fixed on the Sister. “You call me concubine. But remember: it was Fremen blades that gave Muad’Dib his throne. And it will be Fremen blood that holds it. My place is not shadow. It is at the heart.”

For a moment, the Sister said nothing. Her smile did not waver, but her eyes hardened. “Ah,” she murmured, “the desert speaks loudly today.” She inclined her head, the bow as sharp as mockery. “We shall see if history listens.”

Paul rose then, his cloak sweeping as he moved. His voice, calm but unyielding, carried across the stone hall.

“History will remember who stood with me. And who stood against.”

No one answered.

Chapter Text

The council chamber lay quiet behind them, its echoes of sneers and whispers still clinging like dust. Paul led Chani through the narrow stone corridors of the citadel until they reached a smaller room overlooking the city. The sounds of construction below—hammers striking, voices calling—drifted faintly through the open shutters.

For a long moment, Paul said nothing. He stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, gazing at the desert horizon. The mantle of Muad’Dib weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Chani broke the silence first. Her voice was low, sharp-edged.
“They laugh at me. They dismiss my words as if they are nothing. To them, I am nothing but your concubine, an ornament at your side.”

Paul turned, his face unreadable. “You silenced them more than once.”

“I did not silence them,” Chani snapped. “I gave them truth, and they covered their ears. Do you not see? They will never accept me. To them, I am sand beneath their boots.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “Yet you place me in their midst, where their scorn cuts deepest. Why, Paul? Why must I endure this?”

He stepped toward her, his voice soft but taut with suppressed fury.
“Because I will not let them erase you. Because the empire I see—” he broke off, searching her face. “Chani, in all my visions, in every thread of future, you are the center. Not Irulan. Not the Sisterhood. You.”

She looked at him, the fire in her eyes slowly giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable. “And yet they would have me vanish into shadow, remembered only as the womb that bore your heirs.”

Paul touched her cheek, gently, reverently. “You are more than womb or shadow. You are the desert’s heart. They mock you now, yes. But the day will come when they will speak your name with fear.”

Chani held his gaze, her breath unsteady. For a moment the weight of empire fell away, and she was only his beloved, torn between devotion and bitterness.

At the doorway, a child’s voice broke the stillness.

“They fear you already.”

Both turned. Alia stood there, her small frame haloed in the light from the corridor, her expression older than her years. Her eyes glimmered with eerie knowing.

“They laugh because they tremble,” she said. “Because they see the desert rising, and they know it will swallow them.”

Chani shivered at the words, though Paul’s face betrayed nothing. He only reached for Chani’s hand, threading his fingers through hers.

In the silence that followed, the three of them stood together, bound by blood, vision, and the desert’s inexorable pull.

The council had ended hours ago, yet the stone corridors of the citadel still echoed with the voices of nobles and envoys as they departed in clusters.

In one dim hall, Lord Thorvald leaned close to a fellow noble, his jeweled rings catching the torchlight.
“Did you see it? He lets the concubine speak in council, as if she were queen.”

The other sneered. “An emperor bewitched by a desert witch. If he places her hand on the empire’s reins, what becomes of us?”

“The Sisterhood warned us,” Thorvald muttered. “Irulan must bear the heir. That concubine’s spawn would poison the throne.”

Behind them, a Bene Gesserit sister drifted past, her face hidden beneath her hood. She did not pause, did not speak, but her silence carried weight. She had heard.

The nobles quieted until her steps faded. Then Thorvald’s companion hissed, “So long as she remains, Paul is blind. Perhaps the desert queen must be cut away before rot spreads further.”

Their words vanished into the stone, but the intent lingered: poison in shadow, a blade unsheathed.

The half-built palace rose like a skeleton from the desert, its arches and towers etched against the sun. Scaffolding clung to the stone walls, ropes creaking, dust rising in golden plumes with every strike of hammer and chisel.

Paul walked among the workers with a retinue of Fremen guards. Chani was at his side, Alia trailing close, her small face sharp with watchful silence. The nobles had refused to dirty their hands with construction, but Paul insisted on seeing the progress himself.

A foreman bowed deeply as Paul approached. “Muad’Dib, the first courtyard stands ready. Would you honor it with your presence?”

Paul inclined his head. His prescient sense twitched—an itch of unease at the edge of vision. He glanced at Chani. She noticed; she always noticed. Her hand brushed the hilt of her crysknife beneath her robe.

They stepped into the courtyard. Light poured down from above, striking the stone in harsh brilliance. A hundred workers froze, eyes wide, murmuring prayers as Muad’Dib passed among them.

Then—

A sound. Too sharp. Not hammer, not chisel.

Paul spun as a shadow detached itself from the scaffolding above. A man in worker’s garb dropped, blade glinting in hand. The crysknife was aimed not at Paul—but at Chani.

Time seemed to slow. Paul shouted. Chani raised her arm. The assassin’s crysknife slashed, grazing her sleeve. Blood beaded scarlet against the desert cloth.

A roar answered from the Fremen guards. Two leapt forward, dragging the man to the ground, his blade clattering against the stone. Another guard’s knife flashed, and the assassin’s throat spilled red across the courtyard floor.

The workers shrieked and scattered. Alia stood unmoving, her child’s face lit with something like grim amusement.

Paul caught Chani’s arm, his voice low but taut with fury. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” she said through clenched teeth. Her eyes, hard as flint, stayed fixed on the fallen assassin. “He aimed for me, Paul. Not for you.”

Paul’s hand tightened on her arm. Prescience flared within him, futures fracturing like shards of glass. Too many paths led to Chani’s death. Too many ended in silence and loss.

He turned to his guards, his voice a whip-crack. “Find his masters. Tear down every stone if you must. Bring me names.”

The courtyard rang with shouts as the guards dispersed. The workers whispered in awe and fear. The legend of Muad’Dib had grown another shadow—but among the whispers, another name stirred too: the desert queen.

Chani pressed her hand against the shallow cut on her arm, crimson seeping through her fingers. She met Paul’s gaze, steady despite the sting. “They come for me because they cannot reach you.”

Paul’s jaw hardened. “Then let them learn the desert devours what it cannot master.”

Word of the attack spread through the citadel like fire through dry brush. By nightfall, every corridor whispered of it: the assassin who had leapt for the desert concubine, the way Muad’Dib’s fury had shaken the courtyard like a storm.

Servants walked with lowered eyes. Nobles kept their distance, their voices hushed, their courtesies strained. Even the architects—so quick with suggestions only days before—now bowed deeper, spoke less, and fled the hall as soon as Paul dismissed them.

In the great chamber, Paul paced like a caged lion. His mantle hung heavy on his shoulders, but his eyes burned with restless fire. The Fremen guards flanking the room stood taut, silent, waiting for his word.

At the center of it all sat Chani. Paul had not let her out of his sight since the attempt. She reclined against the cushions of a low divan, her injured arm bound in clean cloth. The cut was shallow, but Paul regarded it as though it were a mortal wound.

Every time she shifted, he turned to her. Every time she rose, he reached for her hand.

“You cannot guard me like this, Paul,” she said softly. Her voice carried both patience and steel. “I am Fremen. I am no fragile flower from Kaitain to be hidden behind walls.”

Paul stopped pacing, his gaze fierce. “They struck at you, Chani. At you. Do you understand what that means? They believe they can weaken me by cutting you down.”

Her smile was bitter, but steady. “Then they understand your heart, if not your strength.”

He knelt beside her, his hand tightening over hers. “You are my heart. They know it. And for that, you will not leave my side again. Not in council, not in the halls, not beyond these walls.”

Around them, the guards kept their eyes fixed forward, but the message was clear: Paul Muad’Dib had spoken, and the citadel now knew the desert concubine stood within his circle of absolute protection.

Chani studied his face—his anger, his fear, his devotion. She could feel the burden of prescience pressing on him, the unseen futures that drove him to clutch at her more tightly than the present demanded.

“I will not live in chains of your fear,” she whispered.

His eyes softened, but the fire did not fade. “Not chains,” he said. “Anchors. If I lose you, the tide will sweep me away.”

The words silenced her. For all her strength, she could not deny the tremor of love—and dread—that threaded his voice.

And so, when he rose and drew her up beside him, she did not resist. She walked at his side, into the torchlit halls, where nobles and servants alike bowed and watched. In their eyes, she was no longer only concubine. She was the woman Paul Muad’Dib kept closer than crown or throne.

The throne chamber was heavy with torchlight and murmurs. The nobles had gathered again, summoned under Muad’Dib’s command. Their silks shimmered, their jeweled hands clasped nervously, but their eyes carried the same veiled scorn.

Paul entered with Chani at his side. His stride was measured, but the air trembled with his anger. Every noble felt it—the storm walking among them.

He ascended the throne’s steps, but instead of seating himself, he turned to face them, drawing Chani forward until she stood before the court.

“This is Chani,” Paul said, his voice low, dangerous. “Fremen of the desert. My beloved. My counsel. She will walk at my side in all things.”

The silence cracked. A lord of House Thorvald stepped forward, emboldened by the murmurs at his back. His voice rose, trembling but proud:

“Muad’Dib, this cannot stand! She is no queen. She has no right to stand before the Landsraad. To place a concubine above law, above dynastic blood—it is an insult to the throne itself!”

Another joined him, then another. The chamber stirred with protest, words rising in angry chorus: concubine, desert witch, insult, scandal.

Chani’s eyes flicked to Paul. She could see the fire in him, the way his jaw clenched, the way prescient shadows danced behind his gaze. She reached for his arm, softly, but he did not move.

When the protests swelled to a roar, Paul descended the throne steps. His hand went to the crysknife at his belt.

The chamber froze.

Without a word, he moved—swift as a desert hawk. The blade flashed. Lord Thorvald’s cry cut short as the crysknife pierced his throat. Blood spilled crimson across his silks, staining the stone floor.

Gasps erupted, the crowd staggering back. Another noble raised his voice, “Tyrant!” Paul’s blade struck again, this time through the man’s chest.

The hall descended into chaos. Some screamed, others fell to their knees in terror. Paul stood amidst them, his crysknife dripping, his eyes burning like twin suns.

“Do you think me bound by your laws?” His voice carried, cold and terrible. “Do you think Muad’Dib bends to the scorn of men who cower behind silks and jewels? You will respect her. You will respect the desert. Or you will die.”

Silence fell. No one dared move.

At the chamber’s edge, Stilgar stood with his arms folded, his weathered face unreadable. Only his eyes betrayed him—glinting with grim approval. He had fought beside Paul in the desert, and now he saw that same merciless clarity brought into the throne room.

Chani, still at Paul’s side, felt the chamber’s eyes burn on her. Concubine, queen, witch, beloved—the words no longer mattered. In blood, Paul had carved her place into the empire.

She whispered, barely audible: “Paul…”

But his gaze was fixed outward, not on her, but on the trembling court. He raised the bloodied crysknife high.

“Let every House hear this: she is mine. She is my voice. Any who would scorn her, scorn me. And any who would strike at her, I will kill with my own hand. Chani walks beside me as my counsel. She is not concubine. She is the voice of the desert. To mock her is to mock me. To dismiss her is to defy me. And to defy Muad’Dib is death.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured through the high arches of the citadel’s dining hall, striking the table laid with simple fare: flatbread, dates, a steaming pot of spice coffee whose scent clung to the air like incense. Despite the grandeur of the hall, the meal was almost austere, chosen to honor Fremen ways.

Paul sat at the head of the low table. Chani was beside him, her bandaged arm resting against the cushions. She tore bread in silence, dipping it into oil, her movements calm, deliberate. Across from them, Alia perched with eerie stillness, her small fingers clasped around a cup she seemed too young to hold with such gravity.

Jessica entered with measured steps, her Bene Gesserit grace as precise as ever. Though age had begun to etch fine lines around her eyes, her presence still carried the same authority as when she had been concubine to a duke.

Paul rose slightly in acknowledgment before sinking back to his seat. “Mother.”

Jessica inclined her head, her gaze sweeping over the table — over Chani, lingering on her bandaged arm, then to Paul’s face, which betrayed nothing.

“Muad’Dib,” she said softly, her voice layered with something between reproach and resignation.

Servants moved quietly along the walls, pouring coffee, laying small dishes of fruit. Their eyes never rose, but Paul felt the weight of their listening. Every word, every silence, carried outward through them into the veins of the citadel.

He let the clatter of a cup settle before he spoke.
“Leave us.”

The servants froze. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as though the words had snapped a leash, they bowed quickly and retreated through the archways, footsteps fading into the corridors.

Silence settled like dust.

Jessica broke it first, lowering herself gracefully onto the cushions. “I hear the nobles’ protests were… silenced.” Her eyes flicked to Paul’s hands as he reached for his bread. “Quite literally.”

Paul met her gaze without blinking. “They disrespected Chani. They thought to dictate who may stand at my side. I corrected them.”

Jessica’s lips thinned. “Correction by blood leaves stains even prescience cannot wash away.”

Alia sipped her coffee, her small smile cutting the tension. “Blood is the only ink they read, Mother.”

Chani said nothing. She chewed her bread, eyes lowered, but Paul felt her presence steady beside him. Not silent in weakness, but silent in strength.

He placed his hand over hers, the gesture deliberate, for Jessica’s eyes, for Alia’s knowing smile. “The empire will learn. Chani is not shadow. She is my equal.”

Jessica’s expression did not soften. “So you would make her queen in all but name.”

Chani’s eyes lifted at last, sharp as desert steel. “Not queen,” she said. “Only myself. That is enough.”

Alia leaned over her cup and lifted it with both hands, her small fingers curling delicately around the rim. The steam of spice coffee rose into her face, and she inhaled with a faint sigh, savoring the scent as though it carried secrets only she could hear.

She raised the cup toward her lips.

Jessica’s hand moved swiftly, plucking it from her grasp. “Not for you,” she said, her voice teasing but edged with command. “You’re far too young for that, child.”

Alia tilted her head, her smile blooming slow and unsettling. “Too young?” she echoed, her eyes gleaming with mischief far older than six years. “You know better, Mother. I’ve tasted more in the womb than this coffee could ever give me.”

Chani’s brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing, her gaze sliding between the two.

Jessica gave a low laugh, but it was brittle. “You see what she does, Paul? Every moment she tests boundaries. Even with a cup.” She set the coffee down firmly on the table, out of Alia’s reach, as though the gesture alone could impose normalcy.

Alia rested her chin in her hand and watched her mother with amusement. “You worry so much about appearances. A sip of spice coffee will not undo the Sisterhood’s breeding plans.”

Paul’s jaw tightened, but Chani let out the faintest breath of laughter — dry, desert laughter.

“Let her drink or let her not,” Chani said softly, tearing another piece of bread. “The child is already more than any of us can shape. We all know it.”

Alia clapped her hands together once, delighted. “See, Mother? Chani understands.”

Jessica’s eyes closed for the briefest moment, a shadow of weariness passing over her face. When she opened them again, her composure was flawless once more. “Chani understands the desert. I, however, understand the consequences of indulgence. Sit quietly, Alia.”

Alia obeyed, but her smile did not fade. It widened, sly, as if she had won a game only she could see.

The food dwindled, flatbread crumbs scattered on the bronze platter, the pot of spice coffee half-drained. For a little while, the chamber felt almost domestic — as though this were not the heart of an empire, as though they were only family gathered for a morning meal.

Paul leaned back slightly, his hand still resting over Chani’s. His voice softened, free of the steel it carried in council.
“You still prefer the old Atreides breakfasts, Mother? Fruit from Caladan, cheeses, fish? Arrakis is a harsher table.”

Jessica’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes never lost their watchfulness. “I learned long ago to take what the desert offers. But there are mornings when I remember the sea air, the sound of waves breaking while we ate on the terrace. Your father would complain that the gulls stole more bread than he did.”

Paul’s face flickered, just for a heartbeat — grief, memory, love. He exhaled slowly. “There are no gulls here, only the cry of hawks. They circle higher, and they do not share.”

Jessica inclined her head, acknowledging the truth beneath the words. “And still, you build. A palace in the sand. A city from the bones of Arrakeen.”

Paul glanced at Chani, then back to his mother. “The desert teaches: nothing endures but change. Even the dunes shift with the wind. We must shape them while we can.”

Alia made a small sound, almost a laugh. “Or let them shape us.”

Before Jessica could answer, the servants returned, moving softly into the chamber. They carried empty trays and linen cloths, gathering the remnants of the meal with swift, careful motions. The silence of their work was a kind of music — the hush of practiced obedience.

Then, a sharp sound: the crash of pottery striking stone.

One of the servants had dropped a plate. It shattered into jagged shards at his feet, the fragments scattering across the tiles.

The chamber froze.

The servant dropped to his knees, head bowed low. “Forgive me, Muad’Dib!” His voice trembled, terror thick in every syllable.

Paul’s gaze fixed on him. The room seemed to shrink around that look, as though all the air had been drawn out. The guards by the door shifted, waiting for his command.

Chani felt his hand tighten against hers — not anger alone, but the weight of fury carried from the night before, the assassin’s blade, the nobles’ jeers. The court was watching him now through a servant’s mistake.

Would he let it go? Or make an example of the man?

Jessica’s eyes darted toward Paul, sharp with warning. Alia smiled faintly, as if savoring the suspense.

The servant pressed his forehead to the floor, trembling. A single drop of sweat slid down his cheek, catching the light.

The servant pressed himself flat against the floor, shuddering, waiting for the blade or the lash. The silence was a crushing weight, broken only by the faint hiss of the desert wind through the shutters.

Then Paul moved.

He released Chani’s hand and rose, his robe whispering against the stone. Every eye in the chamber followed him — Jessica’s narrowed in suspicion, Alia’s wide with eerie amusement, Chani’s steady but watchful.

Paul crouched beside the servant. His crysknife remained sheathed at his side. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and lifted a shard of the shattered plate. Its edges glittered sharp in the morning light.

The servant flinched as though expecting the shard to cut his flesh. But Paul only gathered another, and another, stacking the fragments carefully in his palm. His movements were patient, unhurried, as if each piece held its own weight in meaning.

At last he straightened and placed the broken fragments into the servant’s trembling hands.

Paul’s voice was low, even. “The desert does not forgive waste. Carry this to be mended. A broken plate can be made whole again — as can a man who falters.”

The servant’s eyes lifted, wide and wet. He clutched the shards to his chest and bowed so low his forehead struck the floor. “Muad’Dib…” he whispered, voice breaking.

Paul stepped back, his face unreadable. “Go.”

The servant scurried away, clutching the broken pieces as if they were treasure.

The silence that followed was deeper, but not empty. It was the silence of awe.

Jessica studied her son, her lips pressed tight, as though she sought the hidden lesson behind the gesture. Alia’s smile lingered, sly and knowing.

Chani’s eyes remained on Paul. She saw not only the ruler who had slain nobles in fury, but also the man who now bent to pick up shards with his own hands.

She reached for his hand as he returned to his place beside her. He let her take it, warm and firm, and in the quiet space between them, she whispered just loud enough for him to hear:

“This is why they will follow you.”

The meal ended without another word. Servants came and went, heads bowed, silent as shadows. When Paul rose, the others followed.

Together they left the dining hall, their steps echoing against the broad stone corridors. The palace was still half-built, scaffolds clinging to unfinished arches, the walls raw with newly cut stone. Dust hung in the shafts of morning light, catching on the folds of their robes.

Paul walked at the front, Chani beside him, her hand lightly hooked in his arm. Alia skipped a pace behind them, though even her child’s footsteps carried a strange gravity, as if each echo was deliberate. Jessica kept to Paul’s other side, her stride elegant, her silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

They passed workers bowing low, heads nearly to the floor as Muad’Dib moved past. Paul’s gaze did not linger on them, but Chani’s eyes took them in — the quick glances, the fear, the awe. The whispers that rippled in their wake: Muad’Dib… the concubine… the child.

The corridor opened into a high gallery, its unfinished windows cut wide to reveal the desert stretching endlessly beyond. Wind swept through, carrying grit and spice, ruffling their robes. Paul paused there for a moment, his gaze fixed on the golden horizon.

“The desert shapes everything,” he said, almost to himself. “It eats stone. It swallows walls. Only those who bend to its rhythm endure.”

Chani’s eyes softened. “The palace will stand because the desert allows it. Not because we command it.”

Alia’s laugh rang, small but sharp. “And the desert bows only to us.”

Jessica glanced sharply at her daughter, but said nothing.

They continued, their steps carrying them through shadow and light, the weight of the citadel gathering around them. At last, the great bronze doors of the throne room loomed ahead, their surfaces carved with new symbols — hawk and sandworm, Atreides crest entwined with Fremen sigil.

Paul slowed, his hand brushing the door as though feeling the pulse of the empire behind it. The guards straightened, pounding their spears against the floor in salute.

The moment hung.

Paul glanced once at Chani, then at Jessica and Alia. For this walk through unfinished halls, they were not simply family — they were the axis around which the Imperium turned.

He drew in a breath, and with a nod the guards heaved the bronze doors open.

The throne room waited.

The chamber was already filled. Nobles in silks stood in clusters, their jeweled hands gesturing in hushed conversations that broke off the instant Paul appeared. Their whispers slid into silence, though the air still seemed alive with their muttering.

Paul stepped through first, his cloak trailing behind him. The weight of the room bent toward him — not love, not loyalty, but fear wrapped in reverence. Chani matched his pace, unbowed, her hand still linked lightly to his arm. To her the throne was nothing; the desert was her home. Yet she walked as though she belonged here, and every gaze turned to measure her.

Jessica followed, her face serene, her spine straight, each step a reminder of old Bene Gesserit training. She did not need to speak to make her presence felt; her silence was its own pressure.

Alia drifted in last, small and slight, though her eyes gleamed with a knowing that made the nobles look away. She seemed amused by the whispers, as if she could taste them.

The whispers grew louder at Chani’s side-by-side presence, a rustle of scandal and outrage beneath the polished calm: Concubine… shame… she dares…

Paul heard them. He did not slow. His boots rang against the stone floor, each step deliberate, heavy with meaning.

At the far end of the hall, the throne loomed — vast, newly carved, its arms shaped like the curling ridges of a sandworm. The workers had left it unfinished at the base, raw stone exposed like the earth itself, as if the desert had thrust it up.

Paul mounted the steps without breaking stride. At the top, he released Chani’s hand only long enough to turn and lower himself onto the seat. Then, with every noble watching, he reached for her again, drawing her to stand at his side.

A ripple went through the hall. It was not sound so much as the shifting of bodies, the tightening of breath. Whispers flared like sparks: concubine beside the throne… not even veiled… the Emperor shames the throne itself…

Jessica’s eyes flicked across the crowd, reading the currents with cold precision. She heard every note of outrage, every calculation. Alia smirked and tilted her head, as though daring them to speak louder.

Paul sat unmoving, his hand steady in Chani’s. His voice, when it came, was quiet, but it filled the chamber.

“Whisper, if you must. But know this: I hear all.”

Chapter Text

One by one, the voices rose from the floor of the hall.

A noble in pale green silks stepped forward first, bowing low, though his voice carried a thin thread of indignation. “Muad’Dib, the spice tithes bleed us. My House cannot meet these demands without ruin.”

Paul regarded him steadily, his chin propped against his hand. “The desert does not yield spice without cost. Do you think your House alone should profit while others bleed?”

The noble flushed, stammering.

Another voice rang out, this time from a stern-faced matron of the Landsraad. “Our convoys are raided by Fremen warbands still acting outside the Imperium’s law. If they are loyal to you, command them! The chaos spreads too far.”

Paul’s eyes flicked briefly to Chani. Her lips curved, just barely — she knew the truth of raids, of survival, in a way these perfumed nobles never would.

From the shadows beside the throne, Alia spoke, her small voice cutting sharp through the chamber.
“Perhaps if your warriors fought as fiercely as ours, your convoys would not fall so easily.”

A ripple of shock ran through the hall — laughter stifled, gasps swallowed. The matron’s face flushed crimson.

Paul did not rebuke his sister. His expression betrayed nothing, though his fingers tapped once against the arm of the throne, a subtle rhythm of amusement.

Another noble cried out, more desperate: “My lord, the people starve! Water-rations are taxed beyond measure. Must they suffer while monuments rise in the desert?”

Paul leaned forward, his voice low, commanding. “The palace rises not for glory, but for unity. A place to bind this empire together, stone upon stone, as the desert binds grain of sand. Tell your people this: the day will come when their thirst is quenched.”

From her place, Jessica let out a quiet sigh, audible only to those closest to her. She saw the strain in her son’s words, the gulf widening between his promises and the brutal truths of the jihad.

Alia leaned back on her cushions, smirking. “Or perhaps the people should learn to drink less.”

Jessica shot her daughter a sharp glance. Alia only widened her eyes innocently, though the smile never left her lips.

Paul lifted his hand, silencing the chamber. The murmurs fell away at once. His eyes swept the room, but his hand remained wrapped firmly around Chani’s.

The chamber shifted uneasily after Paul’s command, but the stream of petitioners did not stop. If anything, they came quicker now, emboldened by his willingness to hear.

A farmer from the outer sietch was brought forward, bowing so low his forehead nearly struck the floor. His voice trembled.
“My lord… sandstorms have buried our cisterns. Our children go thirsty. We beg for aid.”

Paul leaned forward, his voice softening. “You will be given access to the reserves in Arrakeen. I will send watermasters to your sietch before the next moonrise.”

The man wept openly, clutching at the hem of Paul’s robe until the guards pulled him gently back. The hall murmured — surprise, even awe, that Muad’Dib would stoop to hear the cry of a desert farmer.

Before the whispers died, another petitioner stepped forward, a pale bureaucrat with ink-stained fingers. “Muad’Dib, my records show discrepancies in the tithe books. Entire shipments of spice unaccounted for—”

Alia tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Perhaps your pen is slower than the desert wind.”

The man sputtered, flushing. “I—I assure you—”

Paul lifted a hand. “Leave the books with my steward. They will be balanced. If theft is found, the guilty will answer to me.” His tone left no doubt what that answer would mean.

The bureaucrat bowed so quickly he nearly stumbled backward.

Another petitioner shuffled forward — a merchant in bright silks, perfumed and nervous. He bowed low, spreading his hands. “Muad’Dib, my caravan was stopped at the northern pass. Fremen seized my goods, claiming them for your jihad. I am ruined without restitution.”

Alia’s laugh rang clear across the chamber, childlike but sharp as a knife. “If you are ruined by one raid, perhaps you were too fat to begin with.”

The merchant froze, mouth agape. A ripple of laughter broke out among the Fremen guards at the edges of the room, quickly smothered. The nobles looked horrified.

Paul allowed the laughter to fade before he spoke. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. “Your losses will be reviewed. If my men took more than was owed, you will be repaid. But mark this: the jihad does not halt for merchants’ comfort. Those who profit from spice must also bear its burdens.”

The merchant bowed lower, trembling, and was hurried out.

Jessica shifted on her cushions, her sigh escaping once more. To her, the court was a stage — and Alia’s remarks were dangerous improvisations that cracked the mask Paul fought to wear. Yet Paul did not correct his sister.

Instead, he glanced at Chani, then back at the hall. The complaints would continue, he knew, as endless as the desert wind. But here, in this chamber, Muad’Dib’s word was law — and beside him stood the family who embodied both his strength and his peril.

Another petitioner was ushered forward — a gaunt woman in a patched robe, her hands scarred from labor. She knelt, her voice rough from thirst.
“My son was taken into the jihad. We have no word. I beg you, Muad’Dib, let me know if he lives.”

Paul’s face softened, though his voice remained solemn. “The desert has claimed many sons. Some walk its sands still, some walk where our eyes cannot follow. Your son serves in my name. For that, he will be remembered.”

The woman bowed her head, whispering, “Thank you, Muad’Dib.”

Before the guards could lead her away, Alia piped up, her eyes gleaming. “If he lives, he’ll be back at your table soon enough, demanding twice the rations you can spare.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. The woman actually smiled through her tears, nodding. “Yes… yes, that sounds like him.”

The next petitioner was a rotund noble who waddled forward, jewels clinking on his wrists. “Great Muad’Dib,” he wheezed, “my warehouses are taxed beyond fairness. Surely one so just as yourself would see reason in granting relief?”

Paul leaned his chin against his fist, eyes narrowing slightly.
He hoards while the poor starve, he thought.

Alia shifted on her cushions, smirking.
“You could always donate half your wealth to the thirsty,” she said sweetly, “and then see how light you feel without all that gold weighing you down.”

The noble sputtered, crimson rising to his cheeks. “I—I—”

Paul’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. “My sister speaks wisely. Cut your tribute in gold. Deliver it to the watermasters within a week. Then we will review your taxes.”

The noble’s jaw dropped. “But—”

“Go,” Paul commanded, and the man all but stumbled from the chamber.

Chani pressed her lips together, fighting a smile at the siblings’ unspoken game. Jessica sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Two children ruling an empire,” she muttered under her breath.

But Paul and Alia caught each other’s eyes. No words passed, but the spark of mischief — of knowing exactly what the other would say — flickered between them, as natural as breathing.

The hall, for a moment, felt less like a court and more like a stage where the Atreides siblings played their roles with frightening ease: one Emperor, one child-oracle, both weaving power and mockery in equal measure.

And the nobles, for all their outrage, could do nothing but bow.

The bronze doors closed with a heavy clang, shutting out the last of the nobles’ whispers. The throne room was empty now, save for family and a few guards lingering like shadows at the edges.

Paul sank back into the throne, exhaling slowly, the weight of petitions and accusations still clinging to him. Alia perched sideways on her cushions, swinging one leg idly, the faintest smirk curling her lips.

Jessica stepped forward, her robes whispering against the stone, and stood between them like she had when they were children. She planted her hands on her hips — an almost domestic gesture, out of place beneath the towering vaults of the throne room.

“Do you think this is a game?” Her voice was sharp, but beneath it was something older, something maternal. “Mocking nobles, trading quips like unruly children—”

Paul lifted his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It seemed to work.”

Alia let out a laugh, clear and ringing. “You should have seen that fat merchant’s face, Mother. I almost thought he would burst before he made it out the door.”

Jessica closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You two—”

Paul chuckled then, quietly at first, then with more warmth than he’d allowed himself in weeks. Alia grinned wider, joining him, the sound echoing strangely in the vast, solemn chamber.

Jessica opened her mouth again to scold them, but the words died on her tongue. She stood there, staring at her children — one an Emperor, the other a child grown far too old far too soon — and for an instant, she saw only the boy and girl they had been. Laughing in corridors. Testing boundaries. Untouchable in their bond.

Her sigh came out softer this time, the edge of her anger dulled. “Gods help me, you are still your father’s children.”

That only made Paul laugh harder, and Alia, delighted, clapped her hands once in victory.

Chapter Text

Weeks passed beneath the blaze of Arrakis suns. Day after day, stone was hauled, scaffolding climbed, dust rising in golden clouds. The citadel’s bones grew flesh; arches were completed, walls smoothed, banners hung.

And then, at last, it was done.

The new palace stood at the heart of Arrakeen like a mountain carved from the desert itself. Its walls caught the morning light, glowing the color of sunlit sand. Balconies jutted like watchful eyes over the city, and vast doors of polished bronze gleamed with the intertwined symbols of Atreides hawk and Fremen sandworm. A fortress and a monument, austere yet undeniable.

On the morning of its unveiling, the family stood together in the high gallery. From there, the view stretched far: the city spread below, the spice-dark desert beyond, endless and waiting.

Paul leaned on the balcony rail, his mantle sweeping around him, and let the silence settle. The workers’ voices had faded, their scaffolds taken down, leaving only the hush of desert wind. For the first time since his accession, the palace felt whole — and so did his rule.

Chani stood beside him, her hand brushing the stone as if testing whether it truly belonged in the desert. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes traced the walls, the banners, the high dome above. “It is strong,” she said at last. “But the desert will decide if it endures.”

Alia perched on the railing with childlike ease, her small form backlit by the sun. She grinned. “The desert will endure us. That is the difference.”

Jessica lingered behind them, her gaze measuring every column, every carving. “It is not Caladan,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But it has its own majesty.”

Paul’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes were distant, shadowed. “It is not Caladan. It is Arrakis. The heart of the Imperium. The heart of everything.”

Below, the nobles gathered in the great courtyard, their jewels flashing like insects in the sun. Already they whispered, already they measured the palace against their own visions of power. But here, high above them, the family stood in silence, the wind tugging at their robes.

The architects bowed low as the family descended from the gallery. Their robes were heavy with dust, their faces drawn from long weeks of labor, but their eyes gleamed with pride.

“Muad’Dib,” said the eldest, a thin man with hands permanently stained by stone dust, “the palace stands complete. If it pleases you, we would give you a tour of what your vision has brought forth.”

Paul inclined his head. “Lead us.”

They began in the great hall, the bronze doors thrown open to reveal a space vast enough to swallow a sietch. Carved pillars rose like petrified trees, etched with hawks, sandworms, and dunes that curled upward into vaulted ceilings. Light spilled from narrow slits high above, angled so that at midday the chamber glowed gold as if filled with spice.

Chani walked slowly across the stone floor, her fingers brushing one of the carvings. She felt the cool grooves beneath her touch, deep and deliberate. “It is beautiful,” she said softly, though her voice carried an undertone. “And yet it is heavy. The desert is not heavy. It shifts.”

The youngest architect flushed, as if stung, but bowed. “It is meant to endure, lady. To stand against time itself.”

Chani gave no answer, only stepped back to Paul’s side.

Jessica moved through the hall with measured grace, her Bene Gesserit eyes sweeping every detail — the placement of doors, the flow of sound, the spaces where shadows pooled. She said nothing, but Paul knew she was measuring not beauty, but strategy.

From her place by the wall, Alia’s laughter rang out. She stood beneath one of the towering sandworm carvings and craned her neck upward. “It looks ready to swallow the whole court. Perhaps that’s fitting.”

The architects exchanged uneasy glances.

They were led next through winding corridors, their walls lined with alcoves meant for statues yet unfilled. The air still smelled faintly of mortar and stone dust.

“This wing will house your inner court,” one architect explained eagerly. “A series of chambers for private audiences, and gardens within for shade and water displays.”

“Water?” Chani asked sharply.

The man hesitated. “Only symbolic pools, my lady. To honor the wealth of your reign.”

Paul’s eyes flicked to her, then back to the man. “The desert will decide if such displays are wise.”

The architects paled but bowed low.

Finally, they came to the throne room itself. The scaffolds had been stripped away, the raw stone smoothed, the throne polished until it gleamed. The sandworm arms curled protectively around the seat, and the Atreides hawk was carved above, wings spread wide.

Paul mounted the steps slowly, turning once to look at his family standing below. Jessica’s face was unreadable, Alia’s lips curved with amusement, and Chani’s eyes were steady, solemn.

The procession left the throne room behind, the sound of their steps echoing down narrower, quieter passages. The architects exchanged nervous glances, as though the weight of their work pressed heavier here, in the most private of places.

At last, they paused before a heavy door of polished wood — rare and costly, carried across the stars to Arrakis. The eldest architect bowed low.
“Muad’Dib, Lady Chani… your chambers.”

The door was opened, and cool air drifted out, carrying the faint scent of spice and desert herbs.

Inside, the room stretched wide but low, its ceilings curved and smooth like the inside of a cave. Lantern niches cast soft light against walls of carved stone, their surfaces etched with simple patterns of dunes and flowing water. Cushions lay piled in corners, woven carpets softened the floor, and a trickling fountain sang quietly in the center — its water glimmering in the lamplight.

Chani stepped inside, her breath catching.

It was no Kaitain palace chamber of gilded columns and velvet draperies. It was a seitch — not in truth, but in spirit. The air was hushed, the walls close and familiar, the space alive with a sense of shelter, of belonging.

She trailed her hand over the stone wall, tracing the carvings. “You listened,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Paul watched her, his heart easing for the first time in days. “It is yours,” he said. “As it should be.”

Chani knelt by the fountain, dipping her fingers into the cool water. Droplets slid down her skin, and she stared at them as if they were a miracle. “You give me the desert,” she whispered. “But also water. Always, the balance.”

Jessica entered behind them, her eyes sweeping the room. She inclined her head once, a rare sign of approval. “It honors both your people and your station. A wise choice.”

Alia darted past her and flopped onto the pile of cushions with a delighted laugh. “Better than the throne room. You could live here forever and never see a single noble again.”

Paul chuckled softly, stepping into the room and letting his hand rest on Chani’s shoulder. She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction.

“It is perfect,” she said simply.

And in that moment, the walls of empire, the whispers of nobles, even the shadows of prescience seemed to fade. Here, at least, in this chamber shaped like a seitch, Paul and Chani could almost believe they were only desert-born lovers, bound by something older and stronger than thrones.

The architects lingered only long enough to watch Chani’s approving smile before bowing low again and guiding the family onward.

“This way,” the eldest said, his voice taut with reverence.

They stopped before another door, carved more elaborately, the Atreides hawk etched across its surface. The architects pushed it open to reveal chambers vast and stately: high ceilings ribbed with stone beams, walls painted in subdued hues of green and silver to echo Caladan’s seas. Wide windows opened onto a private balcony where the desert stretched endless to the horizon, as though daring the sea to be forgotten.

Jessica stepped inside, her gaze sweeping slowly, drinking in every detail. There was space for bookshelves, for a writing desk, for the quiet order of contemplation. On the wall, an alcove was carved with a small shrine for meditation, its niche filled with soft light.

The eldest architect bowed again. “We shaped this chamber to honor the Lady Jessica’s origin. A memory of Caladan, within the heart of Arrakis.”

Jessica’s fingers brushed the edge of the balcony doorframe. For a moment, the set of her shoulders softened. “You did well,” she said, her voice calm, though her eyes shimmered with something unspoken.

Paul caught the faintest sigh that escaped her, the whisper of a mother who still longed for waves and gulls. He said nothing, but the sound lingered.

They moved on.

Alia skipped ahead, eager, her small feet padding softly against the stone. The architects opened a door not far down the corridor.

The child’s chamber was not large, but it was intricately made. The walls curved inward, painted with simple murals of dunes, hawks, and stars. A narrow balcony jutted outward, with a low railing perfect for a child to lean against. Cushions lay scattered in heaps, and shelves had been carved into the wall, awaiting books and relics. A small fountain trickled quietly in one corner, filling the room with the scent of wet stone.

Alia’s eyes gleamed. She darted to the balcony and leaned over the rail, staring into the desert. “Yes,” she said, her voice low but certain. “This will do.”

The youngest architect laughed nervously. “We tried to make a space that honored both her youth and her… station.”

Jessica’s lips tightened at that last word, but Alia spun back into the room, her grin wide. She threw herself down into the cushions, stretching out like a queen. “It’s mine now,” she declared. “And I’ll let no one in unless they amuse me.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You sound more like a Baron than a sister.”

Alia smirked, folding her hands behind her head. “Better a Baron than a fool.”

The architects exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncertain whether to laugh. Chani hid a smile behind her hand. Jessica only sighed, low and weary.

The architects led them down another passage, its walls smoother, its turns deliberate and formal. At its end stood a tall door painted in soft gold, the sigil of House Corrino etched into the wood.

One of the younger architects stepped forward to announce, but Paul raised his hand. “We need no words.”

He pushed the door open himself.

The chamber within was elegant, Kaitain in every line: pale stone polished smooth, curtains of fine weave, a desk covered in neatly stacked scrolls and inkpots. Irulan sat there, her golden hair catching the sunlight streaming through the tall window. She looked up, startled, her stylus poised mid-stroke.

“Majesty,” she said quickly, rising and bowing low, her movements flawless in their courtly grace. Her eyes flicked briefly to Chani, then away.

Paul’s gaze swept the room — too polished, too foreign, a fragment of a world long broken. He gave a small nod. “The architects honored your bloodline.”

Irulan’s hands folded before her, fingers tight. “It is adequate,” she said. Then, with a pointed glance at the scrolls, “I was writing a chronicle of your reign.”

Alia snorted. “Of course you were.”

Irulan stiffened, but said nothing. Jessica’s eyes lingered on her daughter-in-law with an inscrutable weight, while Chani stood silent, her face calm, though her hand brushed lightly against Paul’s sleeve.

He turned. “We will not intrude further. Write what you will.” His voice held no warmth, only a cool acknowledgment.

The door shut softly behind them, leaving Irulan’s chamber in silence once more.

The architects moved quickly to lead them onward, relief plain on their faces. They guided the family into a wide archway that opened suddenly into light and space.

The courtyard gardens lay before them, a marvel of contradiction: a square carved into the palace’s heart, open to the sky, filled with green. Vines clung to stone trellises, desert herbs sprouted from carefully irrigated beds, and narrow channels of water trickled along the paths. A central pool reflected the blazing sun, its surface rippling faintly in the breeze.

Jessica inhaled deeply, her eyes closing for a moment. “Water and green,” she whispered. “A promise fulfilled.”

Chani stepped to the edge of the pool, kneeling to let the cool water trickle through her fingers. “It is strange,” she said softly. “A piece of another world, here in Arrakis. Beautiful… but fragile.”

Alia crouched at the water’s edge, watching the ripples dance. “Fragile things break easily,” she murmured. “And when they do, the strong remain.”

Paul stood in the center of the garden, his eyes on the horizon visible beyond the high walls. “This place is no refuge,” he said. “It is a reminder. To show the empire what we have taken from desert and stone — and what we will hold, no matter the cost.”

The architects bowed, pride evident in their faces, but unease too. For even in this oasis of water and green, the desert’s shadow lingered.

The morning sun burned high, casting gold fire across the courtyard. Nobles in their jeweled silks, Fremen in rough desert garb, guild envoys and pilgrims — all crowded into the square before the palace gates. The air was thick with incense and spice, the hum of voices rising and falling like a restless sea.

At the top of the great steps, beneath the looming bronze doors, Paul stood with his family. Chani at his side, Jessica and Alia just behind, the architects kneeling in a row before him. Dust clung to their robes, their hands still marked with the cuts and calluses of labor.

Paul looked down upon them, his expression grave but not unkind. He raised his hand, and the murmuring crowd stilled.

“These men,” Paul said, his voice carrying clear and resonant, “have shaped stone with their hands and will. They have carved not only walls, but a symbol. A palace that is not of Kaitain, nor of Caladan — but of Arrakis. Born of the desert. Enduring as the dunes.”

The architects pressed their foreheads to the stone, trembling beneath the weight of his words.

Paul gestured, and attendants brought forth vessels of water — clear, gleaming, each one precious beyond measure. He lifted the first vessel himself, pouring it into a carved basin at the architects’ feet. The sound of water striking stone rippled through the silent courtyard.

“Let this water honor your work,” Paul intoned. “May your names be spoken among the people as builders of a new age.”

The crowd gasped. Even nobles bent low, for to bestow water so freely was a gift beyond price.

Paul turned, his gaze sweeping the throng. His voice deepened, sharper now, heavy with command.

“This palace is not merely for the Atreides. It is for the Imperium reborn. From these walls, Arrakis speaks — and the universe will listen. Let all who look upon it know: the desert has shaped its Emperor, and the Emperor will shape the stars.”

A roar rose from the Fremen in the crowd, ululating cries of devotion. The nobles bowed, some with grudging reverence, others with fear. Guild envoys exchanged uneasy glances, already calculating the tides of power.

Chani stood tall beside him, her eyes shining though her lips pressed tight. Jessica watched with her Bene Gesserit calm, noting every ripple in the assembly. Alia, perched like a child at the edge of the dais, grinned at the sound of the crowd — as if she tasted the future in their cries.

Paul lifted his hand again, and the roar only grew louder. The palace loomed behind him, its bronze doors gleaming like a sun.

The reign of Muad’Dib had claimed its monument.

Chapter Text

The palace had settled into its rhythm. Courtiers glided through the halls, Fremen guards stood watch at every archway, and the sound of desert winds whispered through the narrow windows like a reminder that the dunes were never far.

Chani walked those halls quietly, her feet bare against the cool stone. She had learned the building’s pathways faster than most — the secret turns, the places where shadows gathered, the narrow servant passages that threaded behind the grand chambers.

One such passage led her near the throne room. The wall there was thicker, yet not impenetrable. In the seitch, she would have called it a whispering wall: a place where sound carried just enough to betray secrets.

Today, she heard Paul’s voice.

Firm, deliberate, with that weight that silenced a chamber.

“You press too hard. The empire is not so fragile that it must lean upon an heir already.”

A noble’s voice answered, strained with forced deference. “Majesty, forgive us, but stability demands it. The universe must see House Atreides secured. Without a child, whispers of rebellion take root.”

Another added quickly: “And Lady Irulan — she is Corrino blood. Her womb is the surest path to legitimacy in the eyes of the Landsraad. Surely…”

Chani’s breath caught. She pressed her hand flat to the cold stone, her ear straining to catch Paul’s reply.

Silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.

Then Paul spoke, his tone colder now. “Irulan is my wife in name only. Do not mistake a contract for a bond. She is not my consort. She will not be the mother of my heir.”

The nobles murmured, protesting in half-whispers.

One dared to raise his voice: “But Muad’Dib, the Lady Chani is but a concubine! Revered though she is among the Fremen, she cannot anchor the throne in the eyes of the Imperium. The Great Houses will—”

There was a sound — Paul rising, perhaps, the scrape of his chair echoing sharp through the chamber. His voice thundered, cutting through the nobles’ words like a blade.

“Enough. You will not speak of her so. My heir will come from Chani, or not at all.”

The hush that followed was so complete Chani could hear the pounding of her own heart.

She leaned back from the wall, her hand trembling slightly, though her face remained still. The desert had taught her not to flinch, not to show weakness — but here, in the corridors of stone, the weight of politics pressed heavier than the sandstorms of her youth.

Chani turned away from the passage and walked silently down the hall, her steps quickening. Paul had defended her, fiercely, as he always did. But the nobles’ words clung to her like burrs, whispering of a truth she could not shake: in their eyes, she would never be more than the concubine.

Chani’s pace quickened as she slipped from the hidden corridor into the wider hall. The torches along the wall burned low, shadows stretching long across the floor. Her thoughts were a tangle — Paul’s thunderous defense, the nobles’ sneering insistence, the word concubine echoing in her ears.

She was halfway down the passage when footsteps fell behind her. She froze, every muscle tightening, then turned.

Paul emerged from the shadows, his stride long and purposeful, his mantle swirling about him. His eyes locked on her immediately, sharp with a kind of knowing that chilled her. He had seen her vanish from the throne room’s edges; he must have guessed.

“Chani,” he said softly. Not the Emperor’s voice now, but the man’s.

She straightened, folding her arms. “I did not mean to overhear.”

He moved closer, lowering his voice. “But you did.”

Her jaw tightened. “They will never accept me.”

Before Paul could answer, another sound echoed faintly down the corridor: the soft tread of slippers, measured, deliberate. Both turned to look.

At the far end of the hall, Irulan stood beneath the torchlight, a figure of gold and silk. A scroll was clutched against her breast, her face carefully composed. She had clearly heard nothing — or if she had, she gave no sign.

Her eyes flicked from Paul to Chani, then lingered on the space between them. No smile touched her lips; only the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed her thoughts.

Paul’s gaze hardened. He took one deliberate step closer to Chani, placing his hand lightly but firmly at her back — a gesture not only of comfort but of possession. His voice, low but carrying, slipped into the hall like a blade.

“Let them whisper, Chani. I have spoken, and my word is law.”

Irulan inclined her head, the movement precise, almost mechanical. Without a word, she turned and walked on, her footsteps fading into the silence of the palace.

Chani watched her go, her heart caught between pride and unease. Paul’s hand remained against her back, steady, warm, unyielding.

Irulan’s footsteps echoed softly as she moved deeper into the palace, the scroll still pressed against her chest. She kept her pace measured, her posture flawless, every movement betraying nothing. That was the Bene Gesserit way — and she was daughter of Corrino, trained from the cradle to hold her mask.

But inside, her blood burned.

She had seen the way Paul placed his hand upon Chani’s back — not hidden, not discreet, but public, even in a hallway that belonged to all. A gesture meant to be read, meant to remind her and every whispering noble that the concubine held the place of wife, mother, Empress.

Irulan’s lips tightened as she entered her chamber and closed the door behind her. The golden walls, the Kaitain draperies, the ordered scrolls on her desk — they mocked her, reminders of a world now lost.

She crossed to the desk and set the scroll down with careful precision. Her hands hovered above it, fingers trembling before she forced them still. A Corrino must never tremble.

Irulan sat, pulling the stylus back into her grip, her gaze fixing on the half-written chronicle before her. She dipped the stylus into ink, but the words blurred. All she could see was Paul’s hand, Chani’s silence, the faint spark of defiance in the concubine’s dark eyes.

The nobles had spoken the truth in the throne room — and Paul had dismissed them with thunder. Irulan knew now, with painful certainty, that she would never bear his heir. That duty, that honor, that power had been stolen from her before it could even be offered.

She pressed the stylus harder against the parchment, a blot of ink spreading like blood.

The Bene Gesserit teachings whispered in her memory: Patience. Observe. Influence. The game is long.

Irulan drew in a slow breath and let her body still. Her face smoothed, her hand steadied. She wrote again, not as a wife spurned, but as a chronicler of empire.

Yet in the back of her mind, a thought coiled tighter with every stroke of ink: If not I, then none. The throne may have its concubine, but history will have my voice.

That night, when the palace was hushed and the torches burned low, Irulan set aside her stylus and reached for a different tool: a sealed cylinder of waxed parchment, marked with the sigil of the Sisterhood.

She sat at her desk, hands folded before it, staring at the emblem as though it might condemn her. Then, with deliberate calm, she pressed her seal to the page, unrolling the parchment to write in the precise cipher the Bene Gesserit alone could read.

The concubine holds him utterly. She is both his weakness and his strength. He dismisses the counsel of the Landsraad, even of his mother, for her. This cannot stand. If he secures an heir through her, the Sisterhood’s designs will be broken.

Her stylus scratched softly against the parchment, the words flowing steady now, sharp as daggers.

I request intervention. Observers within the palace. Quiet hands. Eyes upon the concubine. She must be guided — or broken.

When the ink dried, she sealed it again, the wax cooling beneath her signet. A servant of her household staff, already trained to such errands, appeared silently at her call. Irulan pressed the cylinder into the woman’s hands.

“This goes to the Sisterhood,” she said, her voice cool as stone. “No delays. No questions.”

The servant bowed and vanished into the night, carrying Irulan’s plea into the desert web of messengers and spies.

Alone once more, Irulan stood by the window of her chamber. The desert stretched endless beyond the palace walls, its stars sharp and cruel. She clenched her hands at her sides.

If I cannot give him an heir, then I will not stand by while the concubine unravels everything. The Sisterhood will see to it.

Far below, the faint light of Chani’s chamber flickered against the courtyard stone. Irulan’s gaze lingered on it, unblinking, her expression unreadable.

Chapter Text

They came quietly, under the cover of dusk. Not soldiers, not assassins, but women folded seamlessly into the palace’s fabric: a midwife offered to tend the women’s wing, a serving girl in the kitchens, a secretary assisting the scribes. Each one carried the Sisterhood’s training behind her eyes — patience, silence, perfect recall.

Within days, they were everywhere and nowhere.

The midwife lingered near Chani’s quarters, observing with a smile that seemed harmless. She noted how often Paul visited her chambers, how long he stayed, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back when they walked together. She noticed, too, the way Chani pressed her fingers against her temples when she thought herself unwatched, the faint pallor beneath her desert tan.

The serving girl listened in the kitchens, where gossip poured freer than wine. She heard the servants whisper how Paul never left Chani’s side, how he ignored Irulan with cold formality. She heard, too, their doubts — that the Lady Chani had not yet quickened, that whispers of barrenness spread like fire through the noble quarters.

The secretary worked among the scribes, copying Paul’s decrees. She marked which orders bore Chani’s influence — softer tithes to desert farmers, leniency toward sietches. And she marked how Paul’s hand would tighten on his pen when his mother’s counsel differed, and how, without fail, he would turn to Chani at the end of every session.

At night, in a chamber deep within the palace reserved for Irulan’s household, the three women gathered. Their words were crisp, stripped of flourish, spoken in the Sisterhood’s cadence.

“The Emperor does not mask his preference,” said the secretary. “The concubine sits in all but name as Empress.”

“She guides him quietly,” said the midwife. “But he listens. More than he does his mother.”

The serving girl bowed her head. “And yet, she does not carry his child. Not yet. It is spoken of even among the guards.”

Irulan sat at the head of the small chamber, her golden hair gleaming in the lamplight. She listened, motionless, her eyes narrowing with each report. When the silence fell, she folded her hands together, her voice calm and cool.

“Then we have our lever. Not his love, but her womb.”

The spies bowed, understanding without further word.

Irulan leaned back, her lips curving faintly. If the concubine cannot give him an heir, then the Sisterhood’s hand will restore balance. And if she does… Her gaze turned distant, sharp as a knife. …then she can be undone by the very gift she brings him.

The three spies returned to her chamber under cover of silence. Their robes were plain, their hands folded, but their eyes glittered with the knowledge of what they carried.

From a hidden pouch, the midwife produced a vial no larger than a thumb, sealed in black wax. Inside, the liquid shimmered faintly, colorless and deadly subtle. Not a poison that killed — but one that lingered in the blood, closing the womb, turning every seed barren.

They set it before Irulan on the table.

Irulan studied the vial as though it were a jewel. Her fingers brushed the glass, delicate, reverent. “A subtle tool,” she murmured. “Perfectly deniable. It will not harm her, not outwardly. Only deny what she already fears she cannot give.”

The serving girl bowed her head. “Shall we see it done, Majesty?”

Irulan lifted her gaze, steady and cold. “Yes. You will lace her meals with it. Slowly, quietly. She must never suspect. And he must never know.”

The secretary hesitated, then asked softly, “If Muad’Dib learns—”

Irulan’s eyes hardened, cutting her words short. “He will not. He is blinded by his love for her. And when months pass without quickening, when whispers grow louder, he will be forced to see the truth. Then he will turn to me. He must.”

Her lips curved, a smile without warmth. “History will record that Chani was barren, that the Sisterhood foresaw it. And when the need for an heir becomes undeniable, I alone will stand ready.”

The spies bowed as one, accepting their orders.

Irulan dismissed them with a flick of her hand, but as they departed with the vial concealed once more, she lingered at the window. The desert stretched silent and infinite, lit by cold stars.

Her reflection in the glass looked back at her, serene, unshaken. Yet beneath the mask, her heart beat fast. This was the first step. The smallest step. And if it succeeded, Paul would never know that the Sisterhood’s weapon had been hidden in a lover’s bread and spice.

The kitchen was warm with spice and steam, pots simmering, knives striking wood. Servants moved in quiet rhythm, preparing the evening meal for Muad’Dib and his household.

Among them, the serving girl bent low over a tray of roasted fowl and seasoned grain. Her motions were unremarkable, her face blank, but in her palm was the vial. With a flick of her wrist, she uncorked it, tilting it just enough for a few invisible drops to vanish into the sauce. The liquid dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

She replaced the vial, wiped her hand on a cloth, and set the tray on its silver stand. By the time the guard came to carry it away, her eyes were lowered, her hands folded in obedience. No one noticed.

That night, Paul and Chani dined together in their private chambers. The chamber lamps burned low, casting warm light on stone walls etched with dunes and flowing water. Cushions were scattered around the low table, a faint trickle of the fountain filling the silence.

Paul sat cross-legged, his eyes still distant from the weight of the day. Chani reached across the table, serving herself from the tray with practiced ease, her movements graceful as a desert hawk.

“You eat little,” she murmured, passing him a plate.

Paul smiled faintly, though his expression was tired. “The burdens of an empire do not leave much appetite.”

Chani’s lips curved in the smallest smile. “Then eat for me. If you fade away, who will the nobles fear?”

He gave a low laugh at that, the tension in his shoulders easing. She dipped bread into the spiced sauce, lifting it to her lips without hesitation. The taste was rich, familiar, comforting.

Paul watched her a moment, then mirrored her, his hand brushing hers across the table. For a heartbeat, the weight of prophecy, politics, and war fell away. It was only them, sharing bread in the quiet of a chamber carved to resemble a seitch.

Chani did not know the drops she had swallowed, nor the invisible war already weaving around her womb.

She only knew the warmth of Paul’s hand, the quiet strength in his eyes, and the faint smile that was hers alone.

Three months had passed since the palace’s unveiling. The banners still snapped proudly in the desert wind, the nobles still whispered, the Fremen still worshipped. And yet, in the private chambers of Muad’Dib, shadows had crept in.

Chani sat before the fountain in their quarters, her hands folded in her lap. The trickle of water, once soothing, now grated against her nerves. Her body felt heavier, her energy thinner. Each morning she woke with a dull ache low in her belly, a hunger that turned quickly to nausea. She ate less now, not more, and though Paul urged her to take nourishment, the food tasted like ash.

Worse than the frailty was the silence of her womb.

By now she should have quickened. The Fremen women whispered of signs, of dreams that marked the stirring of new life. She felt nothing. Only emptiness, a gnawing absence that no spice-dream could explain.

She touched her stomach through her robe, pressing lightly as though her hand alone might summon what would not come.

Behind her, Paul entered quietly, his steps soft on the stone floor. He came to her side, lowering himself until he was level with her. His hand rested over hers, warm, steady, protective.

“You are pale again,” he said gently.

Chani forced a small smile. “The palace air does not sit well with me. Too much stone. Not enough desert.”

But her eyes betrayed her fear, and Paul saw it. He always did.

“Chani,” he whispered, searching her face. “What troubles you?”

She shook her head, looking away, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. “Three months, Paul. And nothing.”

Silence fell between them, thick as the stone walls.

Paul’s hand tightened over hers. He did not speak immediately — and in that pause, Chani felt the weight of prophecy pressing in, the burden of all who whispered of heirs and lineage.

At last, he said only, “The desert decides its time. Not us.”

But his voice carried a shadow of doubt, one Chani felt deep in her bones.

She closed her eyes, leaning into his shoulder. For a moment, they sat like that, two figures caught between love and duty, between fate and choice.

Neither knew the true cause — the subtle venom hidden in the meals she had trusted. A poison that smiled as it stole from her the future she yearned to give him.

And far above them, in her gilded chambers, Irulan wrote serenely at her desk, her chronicles full of dates and deeds, her hand steady as ink flowed across parchment. Her mask betrayed nothing — not the secret triumph that coiled beneath.

Chapter Text

The lamplight in Irulan’s chamber was warm, golden, casting her hair in a halo that belied the cold steel of her thoughts. She sat at her desk, stylus in hand, parchment unrolled before her. Neat lines of script marched across the page, each stroke elegant, measured, precise.

The reign of Muad’Dib entered its fourth year in a palace of stone and sand. His word shaped empires. His armies, born of the desert, carried his name to the stars. And at his side, always, was the Fremen concubine, Chani…

Her stylus paused. The word concubine lingered on the parchment, black and unyielding. Irulan’s lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in the smile.

She dipped the stylus again, continuing:

Whispers spread among the people that the concubine was barren. Months passed with no sign of quickening. The nobles of the Landsraad murmured of instability, of a throne without an heir. Yet still Muad’Dib held fast to her, rejecting all counsel that would have raised his queen, Irulan, to her rightful place at his side.

Irulan leaned back, folding her hands, her eyes lingering on the words. They were not only chronicle; they were prophecy written backward. She would shape history in ink, and when time fulfilled the lines she penned, none would remember it otherwise.

Her mind turned to Chani — pale, thinner than she had been, her dark eyes weary. The reports from her spies confirmed it: the subtle poison had begun its quiet work. Each meal, each sip of spiced broth, carried her further from the future she sought.

Irulan breathed in slowly, steadying her pulse. The Sisterhood would approve. They wanted Paul bound through her womb, not through a desert concubine who could not serve their designs. And if Paul grieved? If he raged? He would rage at the desert, at fate, at prophecy itself. Never at her.

She set her stylus down and drew another sheet of parchment.

If the Emperor is to endure, he must have a legacy. If he is to have a legacy, it must be through me.

Her hand stilled for a moment, her throat tightening with something perilously close to longing. Then she shook it off, her training clamping down like a vice.

Irulan lifted her chin, staring out the narrow window at the desert night. The wind howled beyond the walls, carrying whispers across the dunes. She whispered back, as if the sands themselves would listen:

“History will not remember Chani. It will remember me.”

The four of them sat together around the low table, the sound of the fountain filling the pauses between words. It was one of those rare evenings when the burdens of rule seemed to ease, when Paul allowed himself to be a son and a brother again. Jessica sat upright, regal even at rest; Chani reclined lightly against the cushions, her hand brushing Paul’s arm; Alia sprawled like a cat, eyes gleaming with restless amusement.

Servants had brought the meal — flatbread, roasted grains, a spiced stew fragrant with herbs. Paul dismissed them, as always, preferring the privacy of family.

Alia watched the steam rise from Chani’s bowl, her smile wicked. “You always take the best portion, sister,” she teased, leaning across the table with sudden speed.

Before Chani could stop her, Alia’s hand darted out. She scooped a morsel from Chani’s plate and popped it into her mouth, grinning triumphantly.

But her grin faltered almost instantly. Her face twisted, her eyes narrowing. She spat the mouthful back onto the plate with a sharp cough. “Bitter,” she hissed. “Wrong.”

Paul’s body went rigid. “What do you mean?”

Alia’s small tongue darted against her lips, her expression shifting from childish mischief to something ancient and terrifying. Her eyes widened with the weight of knowledge that was not a child’s at all. “It is tainted,” she said flatly. “Not poison to kill — no. More insidious. A womb poison.”

The chamber went still.

Jessica’s face drained of color. “Bene Gesserit craft,” she whispered, her hand pressing to her lips.

Chani froze, her hand hovering above her untouched bowl. The blood drained from her cheeks, her gaze snapping from Alia to Paul. She had eaten the same food every night for months.

Paul rose in a single, violent motion, the bowl clattering from the table, shattering across the stone. His eyes burned, blue-in-blue, the fire of Arrakis itself. “Who dares this?” His voice rang like a blade, echoing off the walls.

Alia wiped her mouth delicately with the back of her hand, as if the bitterness still lingered. “You know who,” she said softly. Her gaze flicked toward the gilded corridors beyond the family wing. “The Queen you never touch. The one with the Sisterhood’s whispers still coiled in her head.”

Jessica closed her eyes, grief shadowing her face. She did not deny it.

Paul’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling with fury. The air seemed to thrum with his rage, the future unspooling in visions too jagged to hold. Chani sat frozen, her breath caught, her hand pressed low against her belly as though she could will away the poison already inside her.

The bronze doors to Irulan’s chambers crashed open with a thunderous crack, slamming against the stone.

Irulan looked up from her desk, her stylus still in hand, the parchment before her half-filled with careful script. Her eyes widened, but only for an instant before the mask settled over her face again — composed, regal, the Queen in her chambers.

Paul strode inside like a storm, his mantle flaring, his eyes burning blue-in-blue. Behind him, Jessica, Alia, and Chani followed, their silence heavier than any word. Guards lingered at the threshold, uneasy, uncertain whether to intervene.

Paul’s voice thundered: “You dare.”

Irulan set her stylus down carefully, folding her hands atop the parchment. “I don’t know what you mean, Majesty.”

“Do not play your Bene Gesserit games with me!” His fist slammed against her desk, rattling the inkpots, splattering black across her meticulous chronicles. “You poisoned her! Months you’ve been feeding her your Sisterhood’s venom. My Chani, robbed of her child!”

Chani’s breath hitched faintly at his words, but she stood tall, her face carved from stone. Alia leaned against the wall, her smile sharp and knowing, as though she had been waiting for this moment. Jessica’s eyes were lowered, grief weighing her down — she had long suspected what Irulan might attempt.

Irulan rose slowly, her gown whispering across the floor. She did not step back, though Paul’s fury pressed against her like a blade. “You accuse me without proof. How convenient.”

Paul seized her wrist, dragging her closer, his voice dropping to a hiss. “I do not need proof. I see. My visions are clouded with your treachery.” His grip tightened, the muscles in his jaw taut with restraint. “If you were any other woman, your blood would stain these walls already.”

Irulan’s mask cracked — not with fear, but with something sharper, colder. “If you kill me, you silence the only voice that the Landsraad respects. You unravel the Sisterhood’s designs. You expose yourself as nothing more than a desert savage enthralled by his concubine.”

The words struck like arrows. Chani’s hand twitched at her side, but she said nothing. Jessica let out a low sigh, as though watching history repeat itself. Alia laughed softly, a sound like broken glass.

Paul shoved Irulan back, releasing her wrist. She stumbled but caught herself, chin lifted in defiance.

His voice, when it came, was low, dangerous, final: “You will never touch her again. Not her food, not her life. If you even breathe near her chambers, Irulan, you will not live to write the next line of your chronicles.”

Irulan’s lips parted, but no words came. For the first time, the mask faltered.

Paul turned, his mantle sweeping behind him. Chani followed at once, her head high though her eyes glistened. Jessica lingered only a heartbeat longer, giving her daughter-in-law one long, heavy look before turning away. Alia was the last to leave, her smirk cutting deep, her gaze lingering on Irulan like a predator studying prey.

The bronze doors slammed shut, leaving Irulan alone.

She stood in the silence, trembling only when no one could see, her ink-stained parchment still before her. Slowly, with deliberate calm, she sat and picked up her stylus again.

Her hand shook once, then steadied. And she wrote:

The Emperor’s wrath was terrible to behold. Yet even his fury could not alter fate.

The corridors of the palace lay silent in the late hours, the torches guttering low. Paul walked with Alia at his side, their footsteps echoing faintly. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as they passed, eyes lowered, though more than one darted a furtive glance — fearful of Muad’Dib’s fury, wary of the little sister whose smile unnerved even the bravest.

At the mouth of a narrow passage, Paul stopped. He turned to Alia, his expression taut, his voice low.
“She did not act alone. Irulan has eyes everywhere in this palace. Spies. Whisperers. They poisoned Chani’s food; they may poison more.”

Alia’s grin spread, sly and knowing. “Of course she has spies. That’s what the Sisterhood teaches — ears in every shadow. But they don’t expect me.”

Paul arched a brow. “And why you?”

Her eyes glinted with mischief, but beneath it was something older, something hard. “Because they think I’m a child. They forget the child remembers everything her ancestors ever knew. I’ll see their little tricks before they even set them.”

Paul studied her a moment. For all her playfulness, he knew she spoke the truth. The Bene Gesserit had underestimated her once — they would not live to do so again.

Alia twirled the end of her braid around her finger, as if this were a game. “Shall we play hunter and prey, brother?”

Paul’s lips curved in the faintest smile, grim but genuine. “Yes. But this time, the prey will not escape.”

The search began.

Alia slipped through the palace like a shadow, listening where others overlooked, her small frame unnoticed by servants and guards alike. She lingered in kitchens, in sculleries, in scriptoriums — places where whispers bred.

Paul followed a different path. His prescient visions narrowed, seeking threads of deceit, shadows of Irulan’s allies moving through time. It was not perfect; the poison clouded some futures, the Sisterhood’s craft blurring others. But still, names rose to him like sparks in the dark.

By the week’s end, they compared what they had found.

Alia laid out the truth with relish, her voice bright with mockery. “A midwife, a scribe, and a kitchen girl. All sworn to Irulan, all whisper-trained. Clever little vipers.”

Paul nodded, his jaw tightening. “Then they will be rooted out. Quietly. No spectacle — yet.”

Alia tilted her head, her grin sharp. “Shall I deal with them?”

For a moment, Paul’s silence lingered. Then he nodded once. “Yes. But bring them to me first. I want to see their fear.”

Alia’s laugh echoed down the corridor, clear and eerie. “Oh, they will fear, brother. They will beg the sand itself to swallow them before I am done.”

Chapter Text

The three were dragged into the old stone chamber beneath the palace, where the air was damp and the walls still bore the marks of chains from an older tyranny. Torches hissed in iron brackets, their light dancing across the rough-hewn floor.

The midwife, the scribe, and the kitchen girl knelt in a row, their wrists bound, heads bowed. Their plain clothes were rumpled, their faces pale but still defiant. They had been trained for silence, for endurance.

Paul entered first, his presence filling the chamber like a storm. His mantle dragged lightly against the floor, and his eyes — blue within blue — glowed with a fury barely contained. Alia followed, barefoot, her small form almost delicate against the stone. But her smile ruined the illusion: sharp, unsettling, knowing.

The guards withdrew, leaving only the four of them.

Paul stood over the prisoners. “You were in my kitchens, my scriptorium, my household. Trusted. And yet you poisoned my Chani.”

The midwife raised her head, her chin trembling but steady. “We served the Sisterhood. Our loyalty is sworn.”

Paul’s voice thundered. “Your loyalty is treachery!” He seized the midwife by the collar and hauled her upright, his face inches from hers. “You would rob me of my bloodline, rob my people of their future — for what? For Irulan? For schemers who think they can weave fate like cloth?”

The midwife’s lips quivered but held. She said nothing.

Alia stepped closer, crouching before the scribe. She tilted her head, her braid swinging like a child’s toy. “You think silence will save you? I remember a thousand inquisitors, a thousand tormentors. I know every art your Sisterhood ever taught.”

She pressed her hand against the scribe’s cheek, her eyes unblinking. “I could peel your mind open like fruit. Do you want that?”

The scribe whimpered, shrinking back, but still did not answer.

Paul released the midwife, letting her collapse to her knees. His chest rose and fell sharply as he turned to his sister. “Break them.”

Alia’s grin widened. She stood, circling the three like a predator. “With pleasure.”

She moved fast, a whisper of motion. A sharp tug of the kitchen girl’s hair forced her head back. “You. You stirred the food. I tasted your craft. Tell me what Irulan ordered.”

The girl’s lips clamped shut, but her eyes filled with terror.

Paul’s voice cut like steel. “Speak now, and your death may be merciful.”

The kitchen girl’s body trembled. At last, the words spilled out in a rush: “She ordered the poison! She said the concubine must never give you a child. She gave us the vial, said it was for the Sisterhood, for the Imperium. We had no choice!”

The other two gasped — her silence broken theirs.

Paul’s eyes darkened, rage and sorrow twisting together. “Irulan.”

Alia laughed, low and chilling. She leaned close to the girl’s ear. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Paul turned away from them, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was low, dangerous. “They live only because I need them as proof. When the time comes, they will be paraded before the court. Their confession will damn Irulan beyond denial.”

Alia’s eyes glowed with delight. “And then, brother?”

Paul looked at her, the fury in his eyes tempered with something colder. “Then the world will know what becomes of traitors.”

Paul’s footsteps echoed down the silent corridor, the weight of the interrogation clinging to him like smoke. Behind him, faint but unmistakable, came the muffled cries of the spies and the low, lilting laughter of Alia. He did not pause. The work of his sister would continue without him.

He pushed open the doors to his chambers. The air within was cooler, scented faintly of spice and desert herbs. Chani sat cross-legged by the fountain, her eyes lifting to him at once. Worry clouded her face.

“What did you find?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

Paul crossed to her, kneeling so they were level. His hand brushed her cheek, lingering. “It was Irulan. The poison was hers — carried out by Bene Gesserit-trained spies. It was meant to close your womb, Chani. To deny us our child.”

Her breath caught, her fingers curling against her knees. “I knew,” she whispered, bitterness seeping in. “I knew their eyes followed me like carrion birds. But to steal this…” She pressed a hand against her belly, anguish flickering across her face.

Paul caught her hand, firm and unyielding. “It is not permanent. The Sisterhood crafts poisons to bind the flesh, but they also craft ways to undo them. I know their training. I have seen it in visions.”

Chani frowned, pulling slightly away. “You would have me drink their poisons and their antidotes? You would make me one of them?”

“Not one of them,” Paul said sharply. “Stronger than them. I will teach you what they would never allow you to learn — the truths hidden from even their sisters. The control of flesh, of blood, of the very seed within you. We can undo this. Together.”

She shook her head, her voice rising, pain sharpening her words. “I am Fremen, Paul. My strength is the desert, the sietch, the knife. Not their twisted games of breeding and poisons.”

Paul’s hand gripped her shoulders now, his eyes burning with urgency. “They have struck at you, at us, with their craft. To defeat them, you must wield the same power. Without it, they will take everything. Do you want Irulan’s laughter to be the last sound in these halls?”

Chani turned her face away, torn between rage and fear. She had always despised the Sisterhood, its shadows and schemes. But the ache in her womb, the emptiness that haunted her, made her heart falter.

“I don’t want their ways,” she whispered. “But I want our child.”

Paul’s voice softened, his forehead pressing lightly against hers. “Then let me guide you. Not as a Bene Gesserit, not as a Sister — but as mine. My equal. My partner. We will break their poison together.”

Chani’s eyes shimmered, conflict burning in them. She did not yet answer, but her hand found his again, gripping tightly.

The throne room was filled to its edges. Nobles in silks, Fremen in dust-stained robes, Guild envoys, pilgrims, and supplicants — all crowded in uneasy silence. Word had spread like wildfire: Muad’Dib would pass judgment on traitors. None dared miss it.

Paul sat upon the golden throne, his mantle heavy across his shoulders. Chani stood to his right, her face still pale but fierce, her dark eyes unblinking. Jessica watched from the dais, grave and weary. Alia leaned against the throne’s arm like a child at play, though her smile was edged with malice.

At the far end of the hall, the bronze doors groaned open. Guards dragged the three spies forward — the midwife, the scribe, the kitchen girl. Their wrists bound, their faces bruised, their steps faltering as the crowd jeered.

They were thrown onto the stones before the throne.

Paul rose slowly, the hush spreading through the chamber like a tide. His voice was clear, carrying to the farthest reaches of the hall.

“These three served not me, not Arrakis, not the Imperium. They served the Sisterhood. They crept into my house, into my kitchens, into my chambers. They fed poison to the woman who is my heart — to deny me an heir, to deny us a future.”

Gasps rippled through the nobles. The Fremen muttered, their voices low and dangerous.

Paul’s gaze swept the hall, then fixed like a blade on the woman seated in her gilded place of honor: Irulan.

Her mask was flawless — serene, untouched. Yet her fingers gripped the arms of her chair too tightly.

Paul descended from the throne. His steps echoed. He stood before her, close enough for his shadow to fall across her.

“Look upon them, Irulan,” he said. His voice deepened, resonant, vibrating with unnatural power.

Her body jerked as the Voice wrapped around her will, pulling her upright despite herself. Her eyes widened in horror, but her lips could not speak.

“Look,” Paul thundered, the Voice coiling like chains, “and see what your whispers have wrought.”

The guards forced the spies to their knees before her. The kitchen girl whimpered, confessing again in broken sobs. The scribe stammered Irulan’s name. The midwife bowed her head in shame, her silence more damning than words.

The crowd erupted — some shouting condemnation, others whispering in shock, the echo of Irulan’s betrayal racing through every corner of the hall.

Irulan’s mask shattered. Her eyes glistened, her breath ragged as she struggled against the Voice, against the inexorable command to witness her ruin.

Paul’s voice dropped, cold as a blade. “The world will know. The Sisterhood will know. The Queen of the Imperium poisoned her Emperor’s womb.”

Alia laughed, the sound sharp and chilling. “Shall we hang them from the walls, brother?”

Paul lifted his hand. “No. Their fate will serve a greater lesson.”

The spies were dragged back, screaming, as the nobles watched, horrified, enthralled. And Irulan — frozen, trembling, her shame laid bare — could not look away.

The throne room floor was cleared. Guards dragged the three spies to the center of the hall, binding them to iron posts set into the stone — relics from the Harkonnen days, now resurrected for a darker purpose.

The nobles recoiled, whispers rippling like a storm. The Fremen leaned forward, eyes bright, approving. They had no patience for soft justice.

Paul remained standing before the throne, his mantle heavy, his gaze cold. His voice rang out, cutting through the murmurs:

“They sought to kill not with blade or poison of death, but with poison of the womb. Treachery most foul. For this crime, they shall meet the judgment of the desert.”

At his signal, attendants brought forth great jars of sand — coarse and shimmering, gathered from the open dunes. The guards poured the sand at the prisoners’ feet until it piled around their legs.

The midwife cried out, her voice hoarse. “Mercy, Majesty—”

Paul raised his hand, silencing her with a glare. “You gave no mercy.”

More sand was poured, rising to their waists, their chests, pressing them tighter against the posts. The kitchen girl sobbed, thrashing uselessly as the grains swallowed her. The scribe prayed under her breath, words cracking between gasps.

Alia stepped forward, eyes alight, her small hand reaching into the jars. She let the sand trickle slowly between her fingers, savoring their screams. “Dune always takes back her own,” she murmured.

When the sand reached their throats, Paul spoke again, his voice low and terrible: “Let all see what becomes of traitors in the house of Muad’Dib. Not quick death. Not mercy. Only the weight of Arrakis itself.”

The last jar was emptied. Sand rose over their mouths, muffling the cries, and then over their eyes. The room fell to silence but for the soft hiss of shifting grains. The spies disappeared, swallowed as though the desert itself had risen into the throne room to claim them.

The nobles trembled. Some turned pale, others bowed their heads deeply, not daring to meet Paul’s eyes. The Fremen gave a low ululating cry, a sound of fierce approval.

Irulan sat rigid, her face ashen, her knuckles white against the arms of her chair. She could not look away; the Voice still held her.

Paul turned, mounting the steps back to his throne. He raised his hand, and the chamber echoed with his words:

“This is the fate of all who conspire against me. Remember it. Whisper it to your children. Let the desert teach you fear.”

He sat, his eyes sweeping the court. None spoke. None moved.

Only Alia’s laughter, low and eerie, lingered in the air, curling around the silence like smoke.

Chapter Text

Irulan’s chamber was dim, the curtains drawn, the air heavy with the perfume of withered flowers. She sat at her desk as always, the chronicle unrolled before her. But for once, her stylus did not move.

Her hands trembled faintly. She could still hear the muffled cries of the spies as the sand swallowed them, could still feel the invisible chains of the Voice binding her, forcing her eyes open as her own agents betrayed her in the Emperor’s court.

Her mask had cracked. They had seen her falter. That shame stung worse than Paul’s fury.

And yet, she breathed. She lived. That fact alone was a weapon.

Slowly, Irulan pressed her fingers flat against the parchment, grounding herself in its smoothness. Then, as she had been trained since childhood, she let her mind settle into cold calculation.

The Bene Gesserit would know of her failure. They would not forgive weakness, but they would not discard her. She was still Corrino, still the Empress in name, still a piece on their board. They would guide her next steps — or she would guide them.

Her eyes narrowed. Paul’s display had burned fear into the nobles, but fear could turn. Already she imagined the whispers spreading: the Emperor who used the barbaric justice of Arrakis in his throne room, who buried women alive before their peers. The Great Houses would be horrified. The Sisterhood would use that horror.

Irulan drew in a steady breath, lifted her stylus, and began to write.

The Emperor’s justice was merciless. He buried the guilty as he would enemies in the desert, his sister laughing at their deaths. The court trembled — not only in reverence, but in fear. For who can love a tyrant, even one born of prophecy?

Her hand steadied as the words flowed. History would carry her voice. Where Paul inspired terror, she would inspire doubt. Where Chani held his heart, Irulan would hold the pen — and through it, the future.

And in the silence of her chamber, she whispered: “If I cannot rule him, I will rule the memory of him. That will be enough.”

The chamber was quiet save for the soft trickle of the fountain. Outside, the night wind rattled against the shutters, carrying the hiss of sand across stone.

Paul knelt on the cushions before Chani, his mantle cast aside, his expression grave. She sat opposite him, her posture straight but tense, hands folded tightly in her lap.

“You doubt this,” Paul said, his voice soft but firm.

Chani met his eyes, unflinching. “I do not doubt you. But their ways… Bene Gesserit tricks, poisons and whispers. I was not born to them. I am Fremen. My strength is the crysknife, the sand, the desert. Not this.”

Paul reached across the space between them, gently taking her hand. “The desert taught you to endure. The Bene Gesserit only sharpen what nature has already given. Flesh obeys the mind, Chani. Breath, blood, womb — all can be commanded. You are stronger than any of them. I will show you.”

She hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

Paul inhaled slowly, and as he did, the air seemed to still. “Close your eyes.”

Chani obeyed.

“Feel the rhythm of your breath,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Slow. Deep. Let it carry you inward. The Sisterhood calls this Prana-bindu. Control of nerve and muscle. But it is more than control. It is awareness. Every fiber, every drop of blood, every cell of your body.”

Chani’s breathing steadied. Her shoulders loosened.

“Now,” Paul whispered, “turn that awareness downward. To the womb. Feel the stillness there. The silence. Do not fear it. Do not grieve it. Touch it with your mind.”

Her brow furrowed, but her breath remained even. “It is… empty,” she whispered. “A hollow place.”

Paul’s hand tightened around hers. “Yes. Because the poison lingers. It tells your body to turn away life. But you can teach it otherwise. You can command it.”

Chani’s lips parted, her breath trembling. “Command my own flesh…”

Paul leaned closer, his voice almost a vow. “Together, we will undo what they’ve done. You will heal. And when our child comes, it will not be by their design. It will be ours alone.”

Chani opened her eyes then, meeting his gaze. The doubt was not gone, but something fiercer flickered beneath it — the spark of defiance, of belief.

She nodded once, slowly. “Show me, Paul. Show me everything.”

And in that moment, the desert’s strength and the Sisterhood’s secrets began to weave together, bound by love and necessity.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the glow of a single oil lamp. Paul sat cross-legged across from Chani, his posture steady, his eyes intent. Chani mirrored him, her brow already damp with sweat.

Paul’s voice was calm, deliberate. “Focus on the smallest thread. A single muscle. The Sisterhood trains from birth to master the body, but you are stronger than they ever were. You’ve learned to survive the desert — this is the same. Survival turned inward.”

Chani closed her eyes, drawing in a breath. She focused where he guided her, trying to feel the invisible threads of her body, the tension of muscle, the rhythm of her heartbeat.

“Now,” Paul whispered, “command the flow of blood. Send it to your womb.”

Chani inhaled sharply, straining. Her jaw clenched, her shoulders rigid. She felt the faintest twitch in her abdomen — a spark of awareness, but nothing more.

Her eyes flew open, frustration flashing. “It will not obey me. My body is not a soldier, Paul. I cannot order it like a troop on the field.”

Paul leaned forward, his tone unyielding but gentle. “It will obey. It already obeys in ways you do not see. You must strip away the fear. Fear is their poison as much as the draught they fed you.”

Chani pressed her palms against the floor, breathing hard. “Easy words for you, Usul. You were trained to this since boyhood. I am Fremen — not one of their witches.”

Paul’s eyes softened, his voice lowering. “No, you are more. That is why they fear you. Why they struck at you. You are not meant to serve their design, Chani. You are meant to break it.”

She closed her eyes again, swallowing her anger. Her breathing steadied. She tried once more, narrowing her awareness to the hollow ache in her belly. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then — the faintest warmth. A flicker, like sunlight through the cracks of a cave. Not a quickening, not a cure. But something shifted, however small.

Her eyes flew open, wide with surprise. “I felt… something.”

Paul smiled faintly, the first true smile in days. “Yes. That is the beginning. You touched the threads. Tomorrow, you will weave them.”

Chani sagged back against the cushions, exhausted but trembling with the tiniest ember of hope. She gave a short, tired laugh. “The desert never yields easily, does it? Not even when the desert is me.”

Paul reached for her hand, pressing it against his chest. “No. But you are stronger than sand, Chani. Stronger than stone. You will endure.”

The training hall was empty, its walls bare, the floor smooth stone worn by generations of warriors. Only the echo of footsteps filled it as Paul and Chani entered, stripped of finery, clad in simple tunics.

Chani’s eyes narrowed at him. “I already know how to fight, Usul. I carried my crysknife before you carried your father’s sword.”

Paul’s lips curved faintly. “You know the Fremen way. Deadly. Precise. But this is different. The Sisterhood trains the body for war as much as for birth. If you master their art, you will never be caught defenseless again — not by poison, not by treachery, not by Irulan’s spies.”

Chani crossed her arms, skepticism plain. “So I am to fight like a Bene Gesserit?”

Paul stepped forward, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. “No. You will fight like Chani. With their tools, but your strength.”

He struck suddenly — not hard, but fast, a hand flashing toward her shoulder. She blocked it instinctively, twisting his wrist aside. He flowed with the movement, his other hand sweeping low, nearly taking her off her feet.

Chani stumbled, recovered, and snarled, “Trickster.”

Paul smiled faintly. “Adapt. Always.”

Again he struck, and again she blocked, her movements sharper now. They circled, the air between them humming with tension. Sweat beaded on Chani’s brow, but her eyes gleamed.

“Focus on nerve,” Paul instructed between blows. “Not strength. Control the smallest fibers. A wrist, an ankle, a breath. The body can be turned against itself.”

Chani lunged then, faster than before, aiming a blow at his ribs. He twisted, caught her arm — and froze when her knee drove up into his thigh with surgical precision. He staggered back a step, surprise flashing across his face.

Chani grinned fiercely. “Small fibers, Usul?”

Paul laughed, low and genuine. “Exactly.”

They clashed again, harder now, each strike ringing against the other’s guard. Chani’s movements grew more fluid, more deliberate. Twice she faltered, her balance slipping, but the third time she caught herself, flowing into the rhythm.

At last Paul raised his hand, calling the spar to halt. His chest rose and fell with exertion, but his eyes burned with pride. “You see? Healing, fighting, survival — they are all the same discipline. The same strength.”

Chani straightened, breathing hard, but her chin lifted proudly. “I am no Sister. I am Fremen. I will not wear their chains.”

Paul stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. “No, Chani. You will break them. And when our child comes, it will be proof that you are stronger than every scheme the Sisterhood ever wove.”

For the first time, she smiled fully — fierce, unbowed. “Then let them come. I will cut them down myself.”

Chapter Text

Days turned to weeks, and the rhythm of the palace changed.

At dawn, before the court stirred, Chani trained with Paul. In the sparring hall, their movements echoed like blades singing against one another — sharp, fast, fluid. Paul pushed her mercilessly, driving her to exhaustion, then showing her how to summon strength from breath and nerve rather than brute force. She learned to twist joints with precision, to strike with a finger where others would use a blade, to turn her own body into a weapon sharper than any crysknife.

At midday, in the quiet of their chambers, Paul guided her into prana-bindu training. He spoke in low tones, teaching her to isolate a single muscle, to command her heartbeat to slow, to direct warmth and blood where the poison had made stillness. The first attempts left her shaking, her body rebelling against the unnatural discipline. But with each day, the failures lessened. With each day, the silence within her womb seemed to soften, a faint warmth flickering where once there had been none.

At night, they shared bread together in private, and Paul’s hands would linger on hers, his voice softer then. “You are stronger than them, Chani. Each day, you take back what they tried to steal.”

And though her body still trembled with exhaustion, she began to believe him.

While Chani grew stronger, Irulan sat in her chamber, stylus scratching over parchment. Her chronicles had become darker, sharper — less the history of a reign, more the record of a tyrant. She painted Paul as merciless, Alia as unholy, Chani as a barren shadow clinging to his side. Each line was meant for the future, to shape memory when the present could no longer be denied.

But Irulan did not trust the pen alone.

She met with her Bene Gesserit spies in secret, though fewer remained after Paul and Alia’s purge. Cloaked in the incense of her chambers, she whispered new orders. “If poison fails, then doubt must succeed. Spread word among the nobles that Chani’s health falters. Tell them she grows weaker by the day. Let the court believe she cannot endure.”

The spies bowed, carrying her lies into the palace corridors. Whispers grew like cracks in stone — quiet doubts, murmured fears, designed to isolate Chani even as she grew stronger.

Irulan’s mask never slipped. To all others, she was serene, dutiful, recording history. But each night, she pressed her fingers against her pulse and thought: If her womb heals, then I will have lost. And if I lose, the Sisterhood loses with me.

The courtyard was quiet in the early light. Pale blossoms clung stubbornly to the imported trees, their petals trembling in the dry wind. The air carried both the scent of spice and the faint, metallic tang of the fountains.

Chani walked slowly along the stone path, her hands folded at her waist. Alia skipped a step behind her, humming to herself, as though the court were a playground and every noble a toy.

For a while there was silence — until voices drifted from the archways ahead. Two noblewomen lingered near a cluster of guards, their fans half-raised as they whispered.

“…the Emperor clings to her still, though she cannot give him a child.”
“Three months, and nothing. Some say she grows thinner every day. Others say the Sisterhood foresaw it.”
“A concubine, never a queen. The Imperium deserves better.”

They laughed softly, the brittle sound cutting across the stone.

Chani froze. Her jaw tightened, though her face betrayed nothing. Only the slight tremor of her hands against her robe betrayed the blow.

Alia’s eyes gleamed, sharp and mischievous. She darted forward a step, her voice carrying like a knife. “Careful, ladies. Your tongues might wag too freely. Sandworms don’t like sharp noises.”

The women startled, paling, their fans snapping shut. They bowed hastily, muttering apologies, before hurrying away.

Alia turned back, her grin wicked. “Shall I bite them next time? That might teach them.”

But Chani was still staring at the spot where the women had stood, her throat tight. She pressed a hand lightly against her belly, the old ache flaring at the memory of Alia’s warning months ago. Barren. Empty. The words echoed like stones in her chest.

Alia’s smile faded. For once, her playfulness softened. She slipped her small hand into Chani’s, her voice low and certain. “They lie. They all lie. You are stronger than them. Stronger than their poison.”

Chani looked down at the strange, ancient child at her side — her sister-in-law, her confidante, a girl who spoke with the voices of ages. A faint smile tugged at her lips, though her eyes still glistened.

“Sometimes, Alia,” Chani murmured, “you are more sister than child.”

Alia squeezed her hand, her grin returning, fierce this time. “And sometimes, I am more knife than sister.”

Together they walked on, the fountain’s trickle following them like a heartbeat — but the whispers lingered in Chani’s ears, thorns that no training could yet remove.

The palace corridors had become a hive of murmurs.

Servants whispered as they poured water, scribes as they copied decrees, guards as they changed their watches. Words slid like smoke:

“Chani grows weaker.”
“She cannot quicken.”
“The Emperor bends too much to her will.”
“She softens him. Makes him weak.”

It was poison spoken without vials, carried in laughter behind fans and murmurs over wine. And like poison, it spread.

In her chamber, Irulan listened as her last loyal spies reported. The secretary spoke first, her voice calm and precise.

“The nobles repeat it openly now, Majesty. That the Emperor listens only to her, that his strength ebbs because of her weakness. Some say she drains him. Others whisper she is cursed by the desert itself.”

The midwife-turned-servant bowed her head next. “Even among the Fremen guards, there is doubt. They see her thinner, paler. They murmur she has lost the desert’s blessing.”

Irulan folded her hands in her lap, her posture flawless, her expression serene. Only the faint flicker of satisfaction in her eyes betrayed her.

“Good,” she said softly. “Doubt is sharper than any knife. Let it fester. Let them believe she saps his strength. When the time comes, the court will beg me to restore the Emperor’s line.”

The spies bowed low.

Irulan turned her gaze to the chronicle spread across her desk. With her stylus, she wrote in careful strokes:

Whispers arose that the Emperor’s concubine weakened him, that her barrenness was the rot at the heart of his reign. Even his fiercest followers began to question whether he ruled as Muad’Dib… or as her shadow.

The palace kitchens were alive with clatter and steam, servants rushing with pots of spiced broth and trays of flatbread. The scent of cinnamon and roasted fowl filled the air, richer than anything the desert had offered in the days of the sietch.

Chani moved quietly among the bustle, her hands folded in her sleeves, her gaze steady. The servants dipped their heads as she passed, though their eyes slid away too quickly, as if afraid to linger.

Alia trailed at her side, skipping lightly over the worn stones, her bare feet silent compared to the clamor. She plucked a fig from a passing tray with a mischievous grin, biting into it as though daring anyone to stop her.

Chani paused at one of the great ovens, watching bread rise in the heat. For a moment, the smell carried her back to the sietch — smoke and spice, laughter echoing in the caves. She let out a long breath, as if remembering steadied her.

Alia leaned against the oven door, chewing thoughtfully. “You like it here,” she said. “Where it feels less like a palace and more like a home.”

Chani smiled faintly. “Here, people work. They sweat, they burn their hands, they laugh when no one listens. It reminds me of the desert. Not the court, with its poisons and whispers.”

At that, Alia tilted her head, her eyes glinting with something older than her years. “Ah, but the whispers are here too.”

Chani’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Alia pointed with her half-eaten fig. Across the room, two scullery girls spoke in hurried tones as they kneaded dough, not realizing how their voices carried.

“…she grows thinner every day…”
“…the Emperor listens only to her, and it makes him weak…”
“…a barren shadow, that’s all she is…”

Chani stiffened. For a moment, her hands trembled at her sides. She closed her eyes, forcing her face into stillness.

Alia spat out the fig pit onto the stone floor with deliberate loudness. The servants flinched, glancing toward her, their whispers cut short.

Alia grinned, but her voice was cold as she said, “Funny how tongues wag louder than knives. Maybe I should cut them out, sister.”

The servants dropped to their knees, bowing, murmuring apologies.

Chani turned sharply. “No.” Her voice was low but firm. “Fear feeds fear. Leave them.”

Alia’s grin faded into something sharper, more dangerous. “But their words cut you.”

Chani drew in a slow breath. “Yes. But words cannot kill me. Not yet.”

She turned from the ovens, her back straight, though her heart burned. Alia followed, skipping again, but her eyes never left the kneeling servants.

For the first time, Chani understood how deep the poison of rumor had sunk — and how even the kitchens, once her refuge, were no longer safe.

Paul sat hunched over his desk, the lamplight spilling across parchment and wax tablets. Reports from the frontiers of the Jihad were scattered before him — numbers of dead, shipments of spice, whispers of rebellion in far-off systems. His hand moved steadily, signing decrees, but his mind was elsewhere. The visions still came, fractured and clouded, and with each day the weight of them grew heavier.

The door to his study opened without ceremony. Jessica entered, her presence as commanding as when she had ruled the keep of Caladan. Time had carved her face, but her bearing was unbroken — Bene Gesserit grace tempered with a mother’s authority.

Paul did not look up. “You should knock.”

Jessica ignored the rebuke, crossing the chamber with silent steps. She stood opposite his desk, her hands folded. For a moment she watched him, her expression unreadable. Then she spoke, her voice calm but edged.

“The court is whispering, Paul. About Chani. About you.”

At that, Paul’s hand stilled. His stylus hovered above the parchment. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to her. “I’ve heard the whispers.”

Jessica’s lips tightened. “You dismiss them too easily. They are not idle gossip. They are fuel. Irulan’s fuel. She spreads doubt with every breath of her spies. They say Chani weakens you. That she is barren. That your reign falters because of her.”

Paul leaned back, his jaw tight, eyes blazing blue within blue. “Lies.”

Jessica’s eyes softened, but her tone did not. “Perhaps. But lies can shape truth if enough believe them. You sit on a throne that shakes beneath you, Paul. You must act.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Paul’s gaze drifted to the parchment, though he did not see it. His thoughts reached for Chani — the weight she carried, the strength she was only beginning to reclaim. He remembered her trembling in his training, remembered her flicker of success.

Finally, he said, low and hard, “I will not cast her aside. Not for Irulan, not for the Sisterhood, not for the court.”

Jessica exhaled, closing her eyes briefly. “I do not ask that. But you must protect her — and protect yourself. If the court believes you are ruled by love, they will test your strength. And if they believe you are ruled by weakness…”

Her words trailed, unfinished but heavy.

Paul set down his stylus, rising from the desk. He turned toward the window, where the desert night stretched endless and merciless beyond the walls.

“Let them whisper,” he said. “Let them doubt. I will show them what weakness truly means, and they will regret ever speaking her name.”

Jessica studied him, worry etched deep into her features. For all his power, for all his prescience, he was still her son — and she feared the abyss that fury might open before him.

Chapter Text

The chamber was cloaked in shadow, the fountain whispering softly in the corner. Moonlight slanted through the shutters, falling across Chani’s figure as she sat on the edge of their bed, her hands clenched in her lap.

Paul paced before her, his cloak still on his shoulders as if he had come directly from the study, too agitated to rest. His voice cut through the silence, sharp and low.

“You should have told me, Chani. About the whispers. About what they say of you.”

Chani’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “And what would you have done? Struck them down in the hall? Buried another in sand before their peers?”

Paul’s jaw tightened. “I would have silenced them. They dare to speak of you as if—”

“As if I am weak?” she snapped, rising to her feet. “I am weak, Paul! I tire too quickly, my womb has not quickened, and every day I feel the weight of their eyes on me. Do you think I do not know?”

Paul’s voice grew harsher, though his eyes betrayed desperation. “You are not weak. You are stronger than all of them. Stronger than Irulan, stronger than the Sisterhood—”

Chani cut him off, her voice breaking into a shout. “Stop protecting me, Paul! Stop treating me like some jewel to be shielded from dust and whispers! I am Fremen. I am desert-born. I have faced hunger, thirst, and death with my own hands. Do not stand before me as if I were a child who needs saving.”

The words hung between them, sharp as a blade.

Paul froze, his chest heaving, his lips parted but no sound escaping. For a moment, the prescient Emperor seemed only a man struck silent by the fury of the woman he loved.

Chani’s breath trembled. She turned her face away, her voice softer now but still fierce. “If you truly love me, Paul, then see me as I am — not as someone to guard, but as someone who fights beside you. Or you will lose me, not to poison or rumor, but to yourself.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the fountain’s ceaseless trickle.

Paul’s fists unclenched slowly. He stepped closer, his voice low, strained. “I have already lost too much, Chani. I cannot lose you.”

The training hall rang with the sound of steel. Crysknife against blade, strike against block, the rhythm too sharp to be called practice.

Chani lunged, her knife flashing in a blur of motion. Paul twisted aside, parried, and countered with a sweep that forced her back a step. She bared her teeth, her dark eyes blazing.

“You fight me as if I were one of your nobles,” she snapped, breath quick, the edge of anger in her tone.

Paul’s reply came through clenched teeth. “And you fight me as if I were Irulan.”

The words cut deeper than the blades. Chani’s next strike came harder, fueled by the sting. She feinted low, then slashed high, her blade grazing his sleeve. Paul answered with a brutal parry that sent her staggering, her knife arm trembling from the impact.

“You should have told me,” he said again, his voice cold, echoing the argument of the night before. “Every whisper, every insult. You let it fester.”

Chani spat back, her chest heaving. “Because it is mine to endure! Do you think I am so fragile I cannot hear their poison? That I cannot fight it myself?”

Their blades locked, the strain of steel against steel pulling them close, faces inches apart. Paul’s eyes glowed with fury, but beneath it there was something else — desperation, fear.

“You are not alone, Chani,” he ground out. “You bear my name, my future. Every word against you is a word against me.”

“And yet,” she hissed, shoving him back, “they still see me as the barren concubine who weakens their Emperor. And you, Paul…” Her knife slashed again, wild with emotion. “You let them speak it because you fear breaking what little trust remains.”

Paul caught her wrist in mid-strike, twisting her arm until the crysknife clattered to the floor. He held her there, panting, his grip iron.

For a moment, silence hung heavy, broken only by their ragged breaths.

Then Chani wrenched free, stepping back. Her eyes were wet, though her voice was steel. “I am not Irulan. I will never sit meek and silent while they gnaw at you like carrion. Let me fight them, Paul. Let me stand beside you. Or their whispers will kill us both.”

Paul let his blade fall, the sound of metal striking stone echoing through the hall. He closed his eyes, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of empire and love alike.

When he looked at her again, his fury was tempered, though not gone. “Then fight beside me. Not as my shadow. As my equal.”

Chani’s chest rose and fell, her hands trembling as she bent to reclaim her knife. She slid it back into its sheath with a sharp click. “At last, you speak truth.”

The midday sun poured through the carved screens, striping Chani’s chamber in bands of light and shadow. The scent of spice drifted through the air from the small brazier, where a pot of coffee bubbled, dark and pungent. On the low table between them sat warm rounds of spice bread, their crusts dusted with cinnamon.

Chani reclined against the cushions, her posture loose, more at ease than she had been in weeks. Opposite her, Shishakli broke a piece of bread, her hands deft and steady as she dipped it into the steaming cup at her side.

They had eaten together often during the desert campaigns, sharing what little they had. Here, in the stone belly of the palace, the ritual felt both strange and familiar.

Chani took a sip of her coffee, letting the burn linger on her tongue. Then, with a sudden grin, she said, “Do you remember, Shishakli? When Usul first came to us in the desert — that night in the sietch, when the women made stew for him?”

Shishakli’s lips twitched, her eyes narrowing in playful recollection. “Ah. How could I forget? He sat so straight, so careful, as if posture alone would disguise his fear.”

Chani laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. “And you leaned in, eyes sharp as a hawk, and asked him: ‘Is it too spicy for you, offworlder?’”

Shishakli let out a short laugh of her own, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “He nearly choked trying to prove his courage. Red in the face, eyes watering, swearing it was the finest stew he had ever eaten.”

Chani clapped her hand over her mouth, laughing harder now, her eyes glistening with the memory. “And you pressed him further — ‘Then you will have a second bowl, yes?’ The poor fool nearly drowned himself in spice!”

Shishakli chuckled, tearing another piece of bread. “He was not yet Muad’Dib that night. He was just a boy dropped into the desert, and I thought: If he cannot bear a mouthful of stew, he will never bear the desert’s fire.”

The chamber hummed with the soft clink of cups and the low murmur of women’s laughter. Chani had nearly doubled over, spice bread forgotten in her lap, as Shishakli mimicked Paul’s stiff posture from years ago, back straight as a lance, eyes wide, voice pitched higher than his own.

“‘No, no,’” Shishakli said, mocking him with exaggerated dignity. “‘The spice is delightful. Truly. I—’” she faked a cough, pounding her chest. “‘—I simply need more water!’”

Chani laughed until her cheeks ached, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You wicked woman, Shishakli. If Paul heard you—”

The door slid open.

Paul stepped into the room, his presence filling it like a shadow stretching long across sand. He paused, taking in the sight: Chani curled against her cushions, Shishakli smirking with spice crumbs on her fingers, both of them laughing as if the palace’s weight were far away.

His brows rose slightly. “If Paul heard what?”

Chani’s laughter turned into a sly grin. Without a word, she snatched a cushion from beside her and flung it across the room. It struck him squarely in the chest with a muffled thump.

Paul blinked, momentarily startled — Muad’Dib, breaker of armies, felled not by a blade but by a pillow.

Shishakli covered her mouth, failing to stifle a laugh.

Paul picked up the pillow slowly, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at it in his hands. Then — to both their surprise — a smile tugged at his lips, small but real.

He tossed the pillow back, aiming it gently at Chani. It bounced off her shoulder and fell into her lap.

“Careful, Sihaya,” Paul said, his tone softer than the court ever heard from him. “The last time you ambushed me, I was nearly lost to the desert.”

Chani arched a brow, feigning defiance. “And yet here you stand, Emperor or no, still an offworlder choking on stew.”

Shishakli burst into laughter again, shaking her head. “The women of the sietch were right — she will always keep you humble, Usul.”

Chani eyed Paul warily as he crossed the chamber, his steps deceptively casual. She guarded her cup with both hands, narrowing her eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Usul,” she warned, her tone playful but edged with challenge.

Paul smirked — not Muad’Dib’s commanding mask, but something more boyish, remembered from the desert long ago. He reached anyway, quick as a thief, and plucked the cup from her fingers before she could stop him.

“Paul!” Chani laughed, half outraged, half delighted.

He took a long, deliberate sip of the bitter, spice-laden coffee, his face schooled into calm dignity. He set the cup back in her lap as if nothing had happened, the faintest gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“Still too spicy for you, I think,” Chani teased, reclaiming it with a little shove to his shoulder.

“On the contrary,” Paul said, settling himself onto the cushions beside her. His voice dipped into mock solemnity. “I find it… delightful.”

Shishakli snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. “There it is again. The very same tone he used that night. You’ll choke before you admit defeat, won’t you?”

Paul gave her a sidelong glance, but the edge of his mouth curved upward. “A man doesn’t survive the desert by admitting defeat. Even to stew.”

The three of them laughed, the sound soft and unguarded, echoing against the chamber’s carved stone. Paul leaned back, his shoulders finally easing, the weight of court and prophecy momentarily set aside. For a rare breath of time, he was simply Paul — husband, friend, not Emperor.

Chani reached for her bread, tore off a piece, and handed it to him with a small, teasing smile. “Then eat, Emperor, before Shishakli mocks you again.”

Paul had barely finished the piece of bread before Shishakli leaned forward, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“Do you remember, Chani,” she began, “when Usul first tried to walk the sietch corridors in darkness?”

Chani’s lips curled in delight. “Ah yes. He boasted he could see in the black as well as any Fremen.”

Paul groaned softly, already knowing where this was going. “That was years ago. Must we—”

“Yes,” both women said at once.

Shishakli slapped her knee. “He ran headlong into the pillar by the water cache. Loud enough to wake the children in the nursery.”

Chani pressed her hand over her mouth, laughter spilling out anyway. “He cursed in the offworld tongue for three minutes straight. My uncle said the sandworms probably heard him.”

Paul shook his head, trying to maintain dignity, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “The corridors were narrower than I expected.”

“They were the same size they had always been,” Chani shot back, her eyes dancing.

Shishakli leaned in conspiratorially. “And then there was the time he tried to carry two water skins at once. Do you recall, Chani? His arms nearly gave way.”

Chani laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. “Yes! He staggered like a drunkard, refusing to set them down because he had to prove himself.”

Paul lifted a hand in protest, his ears turning faintly red. “I did carry them. Both of them.”

“Into the dust, yes,” Shishakli teased, grinning. “We had to wash half the water from your robes.”

The two women collapsed into laughter again, their joy filling the chamber like sunlight in the cold stone. Paul leaned back, resigned, though a faint warmth crept into his eyes as he watched them.

Chapter Text

The courtyard shimmered with heat, the pale stone glowing under Arrakis’ merciless light. The fountains whispered in the center, their spray catching the sun in brief jewels of water — a deliberate show of wealth, of control over the rarest resource.

Chani walked alone, her pace steady, her thoughts heavy with the training Paul had set for her. The faint ache in her body lingered, but so too did the flicker of strength she had begun to kindle.

From the opposite archway, Irulan emerged. She moved with her usual grace, veiled in silk that gleamed pale gold in the light, a stylus and roll of parchment tucked against her side. Her attendants trailed behind at a distance, silent shadows.

Their eyes met across the stone.

Chani did not falter. She continued forward, her chin high, every inch the Fremen woman who had walked the desert with knife in hand. Irulan slowed, her mask of calm serenity unbroken, though the faintest arch of her brow betrayed disdain.

They stopped a few paces apart, the fountain murmuring between them.

“Concubine,” Irulan said at last, her voice smooth, formal, carrying the faintest trace of condescension.

Chani’s lips curved into a smile that was not warm. “Empress.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched, filled only by the hiss of water on stone. Servants at the edges of the courtyard shifted nervously, sensing the undercurrent.

Irulan inclined her head, her words honeyed but edged. “I hear you train with the Emperor. It is… admirable that you should seek strength. A shame, though, that strength cannot mend all wounds.”

Chani’s jaw tightened, but her smile did not falter. “And I hear you write history, Princess. That too is admirable. Though I wonder — when you dip your stylus, do you taste the poison it carries?”

Irulan’s mask cracked, if only for a moment — a flicker in her eyes, the briefest hitch of her breath. She recovered quickly, serene once more. “Careful, Chani. Words are remembered long after knives are forgotten.”

Chani stepped closer, her voice lowering, fierce. “So are betrayals.”

The courtyard air thickened, heavy as the desert before a storm. Then Chani turned without another word, her robes whispering as she walked past, the servants bowing low to let her through.

Irulan stood by the fountain, motionless, her stylus digging into the parchment she gripped too tightly. Only when Chani’s figure vanished into shadow did she exhale, long and slow, her mask slipping back into place.

The corridors of the palace were hushed in the late evening, the air cool with shadows. Chani walked alone, her steps soft, her thoughts still knotted from her encounter with Irulan. She turned down a narrow passage near Paul’s study — and stopped.

Voices.

Paul’s low, controlled but sharp. Jessica’s firm, clipped, each word cutting.

“…she was not born to the Sisterhood, Paul. You cannot make her into one of us.” Jessica’s voice carried the steel of command, the old training that never left her. “Prana-bindu is no simple drill. It is life and death, it is the shaping of flesh and blood. You endanger her by pressing her into it.”

Paul’s reply came tight with frustration. “I do not press her. I free her. They poisoned her womb, Mother. They sought to break her, to take from us what is ours. Would you have me stand idle while she wastes away?”

Jessica’s tone softened, but only slightly. “Paul… some poisons cannot be undone. Some wounds must be borne, not battled. You ask her to fight a war against her own body — and not all wars can be won.”

A pause. Chani’s heart pounded in her chest as she leaned against the stone wall, her fingers digging into her robe.

Then Paul’s voice, fierce with conviction: “No. I have seen what is possible. If I train her, if she learns to command herself as the Sisterhood does, she can drive out the poison. She can heal. She is strong enough. Stronger than any of your Sisters ever dreamed.”

Jessica’s reply came colder, sharp as a blade. “Or you doom her by burdening her with what she was never meant to bear. Perhaps it is not her body that fails, but your vision that blinds you.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hiss of the torches.

Chani stood rooted, breath quick, her chest tight. Paul’s faith in her burned like fire, but Jessica’s doubt cut deep, echoing her own fears. Was she being made into something she could never become? Or was Paul right — that she could rise above the Sisterhood’s designs, that she could be stronger than their poison?

“Come in, Chani.”

The words struck her like a blade. Both Paul and Jessica had spoken them together, voices overlapping, sharp and knowing.

Chani stiffened. She had not thought her breath or the beat of her heart so loud, but she should have known — Paul’s prescience, Jessica’s training. Neither could be deceived by walls or silence.

Slowly, she stepped into the chamber.

Paul stood by the desk, his hands braced against it, eyes glowing with a mix of frustration and fire. Jessica sat upright in the high-backed chair, her poise perfect, every line of her body the embodiment of Bene Gesserit calm. Between them hung the weight of their argument, sharp and heavy.

Chani’s gaze flicked from one to the other. She crossed her arms at her chest, refusing to be small before them. “You speak of me as though I were not here.”

Paul straightened immediately, moving toward her. His voice softened, as though to shield her. “Chani—”

But Jessica cut in, smooth as silk. “We were debating your future, child. Nothing less.”

Chani’s jaw tightened. “My future is not yours to debate.”

Paul reached for her hand, but she stepped slightly aside, her eyes flashing. “I heard you both. You, Jessica, think I cannot bear the training. That it will destroy me. And you, Paul, think it is the only way to heal me.” She drew a sharp breath. “Do either of you intend to ask me what I will endure?”

The silence was heavy.

Jessica’s lips pressed thin, but her gaze softened. “Then tell us, Chani. What do you choose?”

Paul’s eyes fixed on her, intense and searching, as though the future itself waited on her answer.

Chani let her arms drop to her sides. Her voice came low but fierce. “I will not be their victim. Not the Sisterhood’s, not Irulan’s, not anyone’s. If this training is pain, I will bear it. If it is impossible, I will test it. Not because you will it, Paul. Not because you forbid it, Jessica. But because I choose it.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Jessica’s expression was unreadable — perhaps anger, perhaps admiration, perhaps both. Paul’s hand tightened into a fist, but when he looked at her, his eyes softened with something like awe.

“Then it is decided,” he murmured.

Chani turned, her chin lifted high, her steps steady as she left the chamber. But her heart was racing, her thoughts a storm: fear, pride, defiance, and something else — the faintest ember of hope that, at last, the choice was truly hers.

Chani had barely turned toward the door when it opened again, unbidden.

Alia slipped inside, her small frame almost swallowed by the heavy archway. Her bare feet padded lightly across the stone, and she smiled — that unsettling, knowing smile that never belonged to a child.

“I felt the shouting,” she said breezily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She tilted her head, looking from Paul to Jessica to Chani. “Such heavy words for so late an hour.”

Jessica’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Alia, this is not your place.”

Alia only shrugged, walking toward the center of the chamber. “Is it not? If you argue over the Sisterhood’s ways, then who better to stand here than I? After all—” She tapped her chest, her eyes glinting. “I carry them all inside me. Reverend Mothers and their endless schemes.”

Paul stiffened, his gaze hardening. “Alia.” His voice was warning.

But Alia ignored him, moving toward Chani with curious eyes. “You choose the path of pain, sister. Bold. Many women in the Sisterhood spent their whole lives never daring to touch the boundaries you walk into freely.”

Chani gave her a sharp look. “Do you mock me?”

Alia grinned, unsettling in its mischief. “No. I admire you. You spit in their faces. That is something even I sometimes wish to do.”

Jessica rose suddenly, her composure slipping for the first time. “Enough, Alia!” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the chamber. “You are not a child here, and yet you are not a guide. You turn every matter into spectacle. Do you think this is a game? This is Chani’s life, her body, her—” She faltered only slightly before finishing, “—her future.”

Alia blinked, then smiled wider, unbothered. “And is it not better that she claims it than you or Paul? You would dictate her fate like any Bene Gesserit. At least Paul pretends it is love.”

The words dropped like stones.

Paul’s jaw tightened. Chani’s heart hammered in her chest. Jessica’s breath caught — and then, to everyone’s surprise, she turned sharply away, her hands clenched at her sides.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with too many truths, too many wounds.

Finally, Jessica exhaled, her voice low, exhausted. “You three will destroy yourselves with this. And I… I will not watch it.”

She swept from the chamber, her robes whispering like a closing curtain.

Alia laughed softly, her gaze flicking between Paul and Chani. “Mother hates when she loses the argument.”

Paul glared at his sister, but Chani touched his arm before he could reply. “Let her go,” she whispered.

The door closed with a final snap, Jessica’s presence gone from the chamber. The silence left in her wake was heavy, broken only by the soft hiss of the fountain.

Paul remained standing by his desk, fists clenched at his sides, the glow of his eyes unreadable. Chani still stood in the center of the room, the storm of the argument burning in her chest. Alia lounged against the arm of a chair, far too calm, her grin almost taunting.

At last, Paul exhaled sharply. “She doubts because she fears. She cannot see beyond the Sisterhood’s leash.”

Chani crossed her arms, her voice sharp but steady. “And you do not fear, Paul? You set me on this path without hesitation. If Jessica is blind with fear, then perhaps you are blind with faith.”

The words stung. Paul’s jaw tightened, but he did not answer at once.

Alia tilted her head, her voice sing-song but edged. “Mother clings to the Sisterhood, Paul clings to his visions, and Chani clings to her knife. And yet, all of you are right. And all of you are wrong.”

Chani shot her a glare. “You speak like some ancient crone, not a sister. Do you think this is a puzzle to amuse yourself with?”

Alia’s smile widened, her blue-in-blue eyes unblinking. “Everything is a puzzle, Chani. Even you.”

Paul’s voice cut through, low and commanding. “Enough, Alia.”

But Alia only shrugged, rising to her feet. “If you want to heal her, brother, do it quickly. The court grows impatient. The Sisterhood whispers louder than ever. And Mother will not sit idle.”

She slipped out of the chamber as lightly as she had entered, leaving Paul and Chani alone once more.

Paul turned toward her, his face softening now that Alia was gone. His voice dropped, weary but resolute. “Do not mistake my faith for blindness, Chani. I see the dangers. I see the cost. But I also see you—strong enough to endure what they would break.”

Chani’s breath caught. She searched his face, torn between anger, love, and the ache of doubt that gnawed at her. “Then I will try again,” she whispered. “Not for your vision. Not for Jessica’s approval. But for myself.”

Paul reached for her hand. For the first time that night, she let him take it.

Chapter Text

The training chamber was dim, its walls bare but for the faint light of spice lamps. The air was heavy with the tang of cinnamon and dust. Chani knelt on a woven mat, sweat already shining on her brow. Paul sat across from her, calm, controlled, his gaze sharp as a blade. Alia paced in a slow circle around them, barefoot, her small hands clasped behind her back.

“Breathe,” Paul commanded softly. “Deep. Pull the desert into you.”

Chani inhaled, her breath low and steady, the world narrowing until she felt the blood in her veins like rivers in the sand.

Alia’s voice cut in, lilting, teasing. “She listens, but she does not command. Do you hear it, brother? Her breath follows her, not the other way around.”

Chani’s eyes flicked open, irritation sparking. “Then guide me, little sister, if you are so certain.”

Alia stopped pacing, her smile sharp. “Gladly.” She crouched beside Chani, placing two fingers lightly on her wrist. “Here. Feel this? The pulse of the desert inside you? Make it slow. Not with fear, not with will. With certainty.”

Chani closed her eyes again. Her breath drew in, long, steady. She felt the beat against her skin — wild at first, quickened by frustration. She pushed deeper, her awareness narrowing, pushing against it as though leaning into a sandstorm. Slowly… the beat slowed. Stronger, more deliberate.

Paul leaned forward, his voice low, reverent. “Yes. You begin to touch it.”

Sweat trickled down Chani’s temple, her body trembling. She reached inward, to the hollow place in her belly that had ached with silence for months. It resisted her like stone, cold and unyielding. She pressed harder, her breath shuddering, her muscles seizing with the effort.

Alia whispered close to her ear, her tone both mocking and encouraging. “The poison tells your womb to sleep. Wake it. Order it. You are Fremen, are you not? Even stone yields to the desert wind.”

Chani cried out softly, teeth clenched, forcing her breath lower, deeper, until she felt it — warmth. Faint, flickering, like the spark of fire hidden beneath ashes. It startled her, breaking her concentration, and the warmth faded.

Her eyes flew open, frustration burning in them. “I lost it!”

Paul reached across the space, gripping her hand. His eyes glowed, fierce and tender all at once. “But you found it. Do you not see? That is the beginning.”

Chani’s breath came ragged, but her lips trembled into a smile — the first true hope she had felt since the poison was named.

Alia straightened, her grin sly but edged with approval. “Not bad, sister. You may yet prove stronger than the witches who cursed you.”

Chani looked between them — Paul with his unshakable faith, Alia with her unsettling wisdom. She closed her eyes once more, drawing in her breath, feeling the desert inside her veins. And this time, when she pressed inward, the warmth grew stronger, steadier, undeniable.

Her womb stirred. The silence broke.

She gasped, tears welling in her eyes. “I… I feel it. I healed it.”

Paul pulled her into his arms, fierce and unyielding, his breath unsteady against her hair. “They tried to break you, Sihaya. But you are whole. Stronger than them. Stronger than all of them.”

Alia stood apart, her grin curling into something unreadable, half pride and half shadow. “So it begins,” she whispered.

And in that chamber, beneath the flickering spice-lamps, Chani rose from victim to master — her body her own again, her future reclaimed from the Sisterhood’s poison.

The city was alive with sound. Drums echoed in the far streets, pilgrims chanted beneath banners of Muad’Dib, and the smell of spice bread mingled with incense from the temples. The newly built palace loomed above, its walls glinting in the sun, a symbol of power carved out of Arrakis itself.

Chani walked beside Stilgar through the main thoroughfare. He still wore his stillsuit beneath his robe, his step steady as ever, but the years of command had weighed into the lines of his face. Around them, Fremen warriors lined the edges of the street, their eyes burning with fanatic devotion. They shouted Paul’s name, their voices thick with zeal, their weapons raised as though each were already in battle.

Stilgar’s gaze flicked to them, then to Chani. “They see him as more than a man now. Prophet. Messiah. They are not the sietch-kin I once commanded.”

Chani nodded, her eyes steady, though a heaviness pressed in her chest. “No. They are Muad’Dib’s chosen — and Muad’Dib’s curse.”

A group of young fanatics surged closer, their faces smeared with spice-markings, chanting Paul’s name over and over. One fell to his knees before Chani, pressing his forehead to the ground. “Bless us, Sayyadina,” he cried. “You carry his blood, his strength. Through you, the desert is sanctified.”

Chani stiffened, a flicker of discomfort flashing in her eyes. Stilgar gestured sharply, and the guards pulled the young man back, but his cries continued, fervent and unyielding.

“Do you see?” Stilgar murmured. “They worship you as well. You, who never asked for it. You, who would rather be only Fremen.”

Chani’s voice was low, bitter. “Worship is not love. They see me only as the vessel of his future. If they knew how near I came to losing it…” She trailed off, her hand tightening against her robe at her belly.

Stilgar’s eyes softened. “But you did not lose it. You endure. As the desert endures. That is what frightens the Sisterhood, and what binds these fanatics to you.”

They walked on, past the throngs of zealots, their chants rising louder, echoing against the walls like the roar of a storm. Chani kept her head high, but her thoughts swirled with unease. The desert’s strength was hers, but now it was twisted into something else — a religion she could not control, a fire she could not quench.

Stilgar glanced sideways at her, his voice quiet so the crowd would not hear. “Guard yourself, daughter of Liet. The city grows wild. Fremen once followed honor and tribe. Now they follow prophecy. And prophecy devours even those it was meant to save.”

Chani’s jaw tightened, her gaze fixed ahead. “Then we must remind them who we are. Before Muad’Dib becomes all they see.”

Behind them, the chants rolled like thunder, relentless, suffocating — a reminder that the desert no longer belonged only to the Fremen, but to the god they had made of Paul.

The street narrowed as they walked, the chants growing louder, sharper, until it was not Paul’s name they heard but another.

“Alia! Saint Alia! St. Alia of the Knife!”

The cry rolled through the crowd like a breaking wave. Chani and Stilgar turned a corner and emerged before the steps of the new temple — its spire carved in the shape of a great blade rising skyward, banners of crimson and gold fluttering in the hot wind. The Church of Alia.

At its heart, a throng pressed close, hundreds of Fremen, their faces fevered with devotion. Some held knives high, others smeared spice across their brows, all shouting for a glimpse, a touch, a blessing.

Above them, on the balcony, stood Alia. Only six years old in flesh, but with the poise of a woman carved from prophecy. Jessica’s hands rested firmly on her shoulders, holding her steady — though whether it was support or restraint was unclear.

Alia lifted her small hands to the crowd, her face calm, her eyes glowing blue-in-blue. The roar deepened. Men and women dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the dust.

“Bless us, Saint Alia of the Knife!” the throng screamed. “Knife of the Prophet! Bless us!”

Alia’s voice rang out, high but unshaken, carrying across the courtyard. “The desert tests you, and in the test, you are made strong. Walk in Muad’Dib’s light, and no shadow shall conquer you.”

The crowd wailed with joy, tearing at their robes, kissing the stones.

Chani and Stilgar watched from the edge of the press, their faces unreadable.

“She wears prophecy like a cloak,” Stilgar murmured, his eyes narrowed. “And the people believe it as if it were water itself.”

Chani’s gaze lingered on the balcony — Jessica’s hand firm on Alia’s shoulder, Alia standing with a solemnity no child should hold. The cries of the crowd swirled like a storm, their devotion almost violent in its force.

“She was born into it,” Chani said quietly. “Born a Reverend Mother before her first breath. She carries their ghosts in her veins. What else could she be but their saint?”

Stilgar inclined his head slightly, a shadow passing across his weathered features. “And yet it is dangerous, this worship. The desert once bound us in kinship. Now it binds us in frenzy.”

Chani’s lips curved faintly, though not in mirth. “Frenzy or kinship, it is still Fremen. And we understand it, Stil. We do not fear them as others do. They shout, they kneel, they call her saint — but in their hearts, they are still desert-kin. They are ours.”

Stilgar grunted softly, as if in agreement, though his eyes never left the balcony.

Together, they turned back into the alleys, leaving behind the thunder of the worshippers, the banners snapping in the wind, the cries of “Saint Alia!” echoing after them.

They walked in silence for a time. And though the devotion had been fierce, almost suffocating, neither Chani nor Stilgar felt the dread that weighed on others in the palace. For they had lived in the desert’s heart, and they knew the Fremen’s fire.

It was not something to fear. It was simply something to endure.

The echo of chants still lingered in Chani’s ears as she and Stilgar made their way through the shadowed passages of the palace. Their steps were quiet, practiced, slipping past guards and servants until they reached the long colonnade that opened onto the throne room.

Court was already in session.

Paul sat upon the great stone throne, his figure commanding even in stillness. The light from the high windows fell across his face, casting his features in sharp relief — no longer only the boy from the desert, but Muad’Dib, Emperor.

Before him, a cluster of delegates knelt and argued in low tones. They were offworld nobles, their robes gaudy against the stark lines of the hall, their voices carrying the weight of other Houses who watched and waited.

“The tariffs bleed our trade dry, Your Majesty,” one said, bowing low but his voice clipped with frustration. “Arrakis is the lifeblood of the Imperium, but if its arteries are strangled, all Houses will suffer.”

Another delegate, round-faced and sweating, added quickly, “Already, murmurs spread among the Landsraad. If concessions are not granted, discontent may ferment into—” He stopped himself short, realizing he spoke treason aloud in Muad’Dib’s hall.

Paul leaned forward slightly, his eyes glowing with the uncanny stillness of prescience. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, carrying across the chamber.

“The spice does not belong to the Landsraad. It does not belong to your coffers, nor your ships. It belongs to Arrakis. It belongs to the desert. It belongs to me.”

The delegates fell silent, their mouths closing like shutters.

From the shadows of the side entrance, Chani watched him. Her heart pulled tight in her chest — he was Paul, her Usul, and yet in this hall, he was something else entirely, something more and less than human.

Stilgar leaned close to her, his whisper meant for her ears alone. “He speaks as Emperor now, not Fremen. They tremble because he does not need their approval. He has what they fear to lose.”

Chani’s gaze remained fixed on Paul, her expression unreadable. She felt both pride and unease twined together — proud of his strength, but uneasy at the cold edge of it.

The nobles muttered among themselves, one daring to raise his voice again. “And if Houses grow restless, Majesty? If the old balance of power collapses?”

Paul’s eyes flicked toward him, and for an instant, the man blanched as though a knife had been pressed to his throat.

“Then let it collapse,” Paul said, his tone calm as a desert night. “The Imperium is already mine. And what is mine will not be taken by whispers.”

A hush fell over the chamber, heavy and absolute.

Chani’s hand tightened against the folds of her robe. Stilgar’s face remained carved in stone, unreadable.

For all the roaring in the temples, for all the chants in the streets, it was here — in this quiet, merciless court — that Muad’Dib’s power was most absolute.

Paul’s voice echoed across the vaulted chamber, final and absolute:

“Enough. Court is dismissed.”

The delegates bowed hastily, some nearly stumbling as they backed away, their silks rustling like frightened birds. Servants swept forward to clear the floor, their eyes lowered, their steps quick. The chamber emptied with the efficiency of a battlefield retreat.

Paul rose from the throne, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow made flesh. Stilgar stepped forward at his side, his presence grounding, solid as stone. Chani slipped from the side alcove to join them, her pace even, her eyes still reflecting the weight of what she had witnessed.

Together they passed beneath the arch of the throne room’s massive doors, the echo of their footsteps reverberating along the corridor.

Halfway down the long hall, two familiar figures appeared from the opposite direction. Jessica, poised and regal, her stride controlled with Bene Gesserit precision. Beside her, Alia walked lightly, her bare feet whispering against the stone, her small frame radiating an unsettling confidence.

They met in the middle of the corridor, the tension of court still clinging like dust in the air.

“Mother,” Paul said, his tone measured but warmer than what the nobles had heard.

Jessica inclined her head with quiet grace, her gaze sweeping across Paul, then Stilgar, then Chani. Her eyes lingered on Chani just long enough for the pause to sting, though her lips curved in a faint smile that never touched her eyes.

Alia broke the silence first, her tone bright and edged with mischief. “I felt the weight of your words in court, brother. Even here, the stones shivered with them.”

Chani gave her a sidelong look. “Stones do not shiver.”

Alia only grinned wider. “Perhaps not for you.”

Jessica laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, but her gaze returned to Paul. “The nobles will not forget your words. They will fear you, yes — but fear can breed rebellion as swiftly as it breeds obedience.”

Paul’s eyes glinted, his voice low. “And love breeds betrayal faster still.”

The family stood there, poised between warmth and tension, prophecy and doubt. Stilgar watched silently, his face unreadable — a sentinel who had seen too much to be surprised, and yet could not turn away.

For a brief moment, the five of them formed a tableau in the long corridor: Emperor, concubine, mother, sister, naib. Bound together not by peace, but by the inevitability of the storm they all walked into.

The silence of the corridor broke with the whisper of silk.

Irulan appeared at the far end, golden robes gleaming in the filtered light, scrolls tucked under her arm like weapons of another kind. She moved with deliberate grace, her chin high, every inch the daughter of House Corrino.

Her steps slowed as she drew near, her gaze sweeping over the gathered family. For an instant, her eyes lingered on Paul, then flicked briefly to Chani.

“Majesty,” she said softly, bowing with practiced poise. “I bring notes for the record—matters of state for your approval.”

Before Paul could speak, Alia tilted her head, her small voice carrying far too clearly in the vaulted hall. “More scrolls? Careful, sister-princess. The ink might poison you before it poisons history.”

Jessica’s hand tightened on Alia’s shoulder in warning, but the child’s smile only grew sharper, her blue-in-blue eyes glinting.

Irulan froze, the faintest color rising in her cheeks. She masked it quickly, but the silence that followed was too loud.

Paul stepped forward, his cloak whispering across the stone. He looked down at Irulan, his eyes burning with a cold fury that silenced even the servants along the walls.

“You come here with scrolls,” he said, voice low, dangerous, “while poison still lingers in my house.”

Irulan’s composure faltered just for a breath. She bowed her head slightly, her voice carefully even. “Majesty, I—”

“Do not speak,” Paul cut her off, his tone a blade. “You will write what I command. Nothing more. Nothing less. You are not my historian, nor my mouth. You are a prisoner gilded in titles, and do not forget it.”

The weight of his words pressed into the air, colder than stone, sharper than steel.

Irulan swallowed, her knuckles white around her scrolls. “As you command, Muad’Dib,” she whispered, bowing lower.

Chani’s lips curved faintly, not in triumph but in something closer to vindication. Stilgar stood rigid, watchful. Jessica’s eyes narrowed, unreadable — perhaps disapproving of Paul’s venom, perhaps approving of its necessity.

Alia tilted her head, almost purring. “Careful, Irulan. Even a scribe can bleed on her own parchment.”

Paul said nothing more. He turned on his heel, the matter closed in his eyes, though his fury still radiated like heat from the desert sun.

Chapter Text

The morning light fell thin and pale through Irulan’s latticework screens. She sat at her desk with the immaculate posture of a court statue, stylus poised above a half-finished line. Scrolls lay stacked in perfect order, ribbons aligned, seals unbroken. The room smelled faintly of ink and spice—piety and poison.

The door opened without a knock.

Paul stepped inside.

Irulan rose too quickly, the chair scraping stone. “Majesty.”

He did not answer. He crossed the room in three quiet strides and placed his hand on the desk. The stacks of parchment trembled with the pressure of his palm.

“Today,” he said, voice even, “you will write.”

“I always—”

“You will write what I say.”

Her throat moved once, a small swallow. “Of course.”

Paul lifted the top scroll, scanning the neat columns of her hand. His eyes moved, hard and precise. Names, dates, decrees. The architecture of a reign—clean. Bloodless. And in the absence between the lines, a shape: a woman who never stood at his side.

He unrolled the next scroll. Again: campaigns, treaties, ceremonies. Again: the careful omission. Chani rendered to a footnote here, an unnamed “consort” there, and in one place—Paul’s jaw tightened—blotted entirely, the ink scraped and buffed until the parchment shone.

His gaze rose to meet Irulan’s.

“You erase her,” he said softly.

Irulan’s mask held. “I record what the Imperium will accept.”

Paul’s fingers tightened on the scroll until the parchment creaked. “You record what you would prefer to be true.”

Silence pooled between them. Outside, a wind hissed against the shutters like sand against hull metal.

He set the scroll down with surgical care and began to rearrange her desk—pulling the hidden drafts from beneath the ordered stack, the trial pages where she had practiced the phrasing of a future without Chani. He read a fragment aloud, each word a flake of ice: “…and thus, in the fourth year of Muad’Dib’s reign, the Emperor’s court was stabilized by the unassailable dignity of his Queen, while lesser attachments faded from public life…”

He looked up. “Lesser attachments.”

Irulan’s fingers curled against her skirt. “The Great Houses will not honor a concubine as history. They will honor—”

“The truth,” Paul said, the word landing like a blade point-first. “They will honor what I command them to honor.”

He took the stylus from her hand. Irulan flinched as if it were a knife.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat.

Paul laid a fresh sheet before her and set the stylus back on its rest, precise as a surgeon preparing an instrument.

“You will write,” he said, voice low, each clause measured. “You will write that the palace rose from the desert because the Fremen willed it, and because Chani counseled restraint where I would not. You will write that the nobles who scorned her paid for it with blood, and that Stilgar approved in silence. You will write that Irulan—” he let the name hang, “—conspired with the Sisterhood to poison the womb of the Emperor’s beloved, and that her agents confessed before the court.”

Irulan’s breath hitched. “Majesty—”

Paul’s eyes did not flicker. “You will write that Alia named their craft for what it was. You will write that Chani endured. That she mastered what your Sisters hoard and turned it upon the poison until it broke.”

Irulan stared at the blank sheet as though it were a pit. “If I write this, I condemn myself.”

“You condemned yourself,” Paul said, “the moment you unstoppered the vial.” He leaned in, his voice softening only in volume. “I am merciful in that I leave you a pen.”

Something cold and stubborn flared in her. “If I refuse?”

Paul’s gaze deepened—blue within blue, desert within storm. When he spoke again, the timbre shifted. Not louder, but resonant, layered—the Voice brushing the edges of command.

“Pick up the stylus.”

Her hand obeyed.

“Write.”

Her fingers moved. The first strokes were stiff, jerking; then they smoothed into the elegant script drilled into her bones since childhood. The palace of Arrakeen rose in the desert with counsel of the Fremen woman Chani, whose presence at the Emperor’s side shaped decree and stone alike…

Paul watched without blinking, his shadow falling across the page. After a few lines, he reached past her and tugged another scroll half-hidden under the desk’s lip. He unrolled it and found the skeletal draft of a chapter—Chani scraped to ash by omission, Alia recast as ornament, Irulan luminous with necessary virtue.

He set that draft aside and spoke in the same flat, merciless cadence: “You will gather every page where you erased her and you will copy them anew. You will mark your falsehoods and cross them through once, so the future sees what you attempted. You will sign your name beneath each correction.”

Irulan closed her eyes for a heartbeat. When she opened them, they shone—not with tears, but with something brittle that refused to break in front of him. “And if history rejects her still?”

Paul’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “History has no say here. Only I do.”

He turned toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. For a moment, his voice shed the iron.

“You are not my enemy because you are my wife in name,” he said. “You are my enemy because you thought ink was stronger than the desert. It isn’t.”

He left her with the page half-filled and the weight of his shadow still on her desk. When the door closed, Irulan stared at the lines she had written, the lines she would be forced to write, and the stack of drafts that now condemned her twice—once by action, once by correction.

Her stylus hovered. Then, with hands steady by an act of will alone, she bent to the page and continued, each word burning her as it set:

…and though the Queen Irulan sat cloaked in the dignity of Houses, it was Chani, Fremen of the desert, beloved of Muad’Dib, whose endurance and mastery unmade the treachery wrought upon her.

The dining hall was quiet except for the clink of silver against ceramic. Paul sat at the head of the long table, Chani at his right hand, Alia and Jessica opposite. The servants had just withdrawn, leaving the family in a rare pocket of peace.

A sudden voice broke it.

“Majesty,” a servant announced from the doorway, bowing low, “Princess Irulan requests an audience. She bears her scrolls for your review.”

The table stilled. Jessica’s fork lowered slowly. Alia’s lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. Chani’s gaze hardened, though she said nothing.

Paul set down his cup. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned blue-on-blue. “Let her in.”

The doors opened.

Irulan glided into the room, scrolls cradled against her chest, her face a mask of composure. She bowed low. “Muad’Dib. I bring the latest records of your reign, as you instructed.”

Alia leaned her cheek against her palm, eyes glittering. “Careful, sister-princess. If you trip, all your lies might spill across the floor.”

Jessica shot her daughter a warning look, but Paul’s silence was sharper than any rebuke.

He gestured with a single hand. “Set them here.”

Irulan obeyed, laying the scrolls on the table before him. His fingers brushed over the seals, deliberate, almost ritualistic. Then he looked up, his gaze piercing.

“You will read them aloud.”

Irulan froze, her knuckles whitening around the last scroll. “Majesty, I—”

“Aloud,” Paul repeated, voice low but immovable.

Alia gave a soft laugh, half amused, half cruel. “Oh, this will be entertaining.”

Jessica exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together, but she did not intervene.

Chani sat in silence, her eyes on Paul, her hand curling into the fabric of her robe. She could feel the cold fury radiating from him — not loud, not violent, but inexorable as the desert wind.

Irulan unrolled the first scroll with trembling fingers. Her voice was steady at first, recounting decrees, trade negotiations, the expansion of the palace. But as she continued, Paul’s eyes never left her, stripping the words of their safety.

When she reached a passage that reduced Chani to an unnamed “companion,” Paul lifted a hand, stopping her.

“Read it again,” he said.

The hall grew colder.

Irulan’s fingers shook slightly as she unrolled the scroll again. Her voice was steady, trained to withstand court, but a faint quaver betrayed her as she repeated the line:

“…and at the Emperor’s side, his consort offered him companionship, though history would honor only the unity of throne and crown…”

Paul leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, his tone calm as the desert night.
“Consort,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Not Chani. Not Fremen. Not Sayyadina. A shadow without a name.”

Irulan lowered her gaze. “Majesty—”

“Read the next passage,” Paul said.

She obeyed.

“…and the Empress Irulan, daughter of Corrino, gave stability to the Imperium through her wisdom and record-keeping, ensuring that Muad’Dib’s reign would be preserved for all generations…”

Alia gave a sharp bark of laughter, unrestrained. “Wisdom? Is that what they call poison now?”

Jessica’s eyes flicked toward her daughter with steel, but she did not speak. Chani’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hand tightening around her cup until the porcelain threatened to crack.

Paul’s voice cut across the silence. “Read the next.”

Irulan hesitated. “Must I—”

“Yes,” Paul said simply.

Her throat worked. She unrolled further. “…and though whispers spoke of distractions and lesser attachments, it was the Empress Irulan who embodied the dignity of the throne, while other names faded into silence…”

Paul’s chair scraped as he rose to his feet, slow, deliberate. He circled the table, coming to stand over her. His shadow fell across the parchment, across her hands, across her face.

“Lesser attachments,” he said quietly. “You mean Chani.”

Irulan’s lips parted, but no words came.

Paul bent closer, his voice low, every syllable precise. “You think if you erase her in ink, you erase her in truth. But history bends to the desert, not to you. Say her name, Irulan.”

Irulan’s eyes darted up to meet his, caught in the weight of his blue-on-blue gaze. She whispered, barely audible: “Chani.”

“Louder.”

Her voice trembled. “Chani.”

Paul straightened, towering over her, his tone flat as stone. “Every scroll you bring me will speak her name. Every record will carry her presence. If you dare diminish her again, I will not ask you to rewrite. I will let Alia carve the truth from your tongue.”

Alia grinned, sharp and feral. Jessica drew in a sharp breath, her disapproval clear but unspoken.

Chani remained still, her eyes fixed on Irulan, a flicker of vindication in their depths, but also something heavier — the weary knowledge that this war between them would never end.

Paul stepped back, his voice returning to its calm, even timbre. “Continue reading.”

Irulan unrolled the scroll with trembling hands, her voice faltering now, each word more bitter to her than venom.

Irulan’s voice faltered as she reached the end of the scroll. Her stylus shook, her hands white-knuckled against the parchment.

Paul did not tell her to sit. He did not let her retreat. He paced slowly around her chair, each footstep measured, deliberate, like the stalk of a hunter closing in on prey.

“You write of crowns and unity,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “You write of Corrino blood and noble dignity. Tell me, Irulan—what dignity lies in deceit?”

She stared ahead, throat tight. “Majesty, I—”

“Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted.

The blue-on-blue burned into her, merciless, endless. Paul leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that it carried like steel drawn in silence.

“You tried to disappear Chani from history. Tried to blot her name like ink rubbed from parchment. But the desert does not forget. And neither do I.”

He circled behind her, hands clasped behind his back, his cloak whispering like a predator’s tail. “You want to be remembered as Empress, the noble daughter of Shaddam. But history will know you first as a poisoner. Shall I inscribe it for you? Irulan Corrino, whose legacy was treachery, whose womb was barren, whose ink betrayed her.”

Irulan flinched, her breath quickening, the careful mask of serenity cracking line by line.

Alia laughed quietly, a sharp, cruel sound. “Go on, brother. Make her write her own epitaph.”

Jessica’s voice was low but edged, cutting through the tension. “Paul.”

But Paul ignored her. He stopped in front of Irulan again, standing over her so she was forced to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“You will not stand taller than Chani in my chronicles. You will not stand taller than her in my court. You will kneel lower, as you do now.”

He leaned closer, his words cold as the deep desert night. “You are nothing but the scribe of her triumph.”

Irulan’s lips trembled, her eyes wet, though she fought to keep her composure. Still, the cracks showed.

Paul straightened, looking down at her as though she were already defeated prey at his feet. “Now,” he said, his tone returning to command, “read the last passage. Clearly. So my family hears it.”

Irulan’s hand trembled as she unrolled the final strip. Her voice broke as she spoke the words he had forced upon her:

“…and at the Emperor’s side stood Chani, beloved of Muad’Dib, whose strength endured against all poisons, and through whom the desert itself was made flesh.”

Paul gave a single nod. “Better.”

Silence fell, thick and suffocating.

Irulan sat bowed over her parchment, humiliated, broken in front of the table. Alia leaned back in her chair, smiling like a cat. Jessica’s eyes burned with disapproval, but she said nothing. Chani sat quietly, her expression unreadable, though a faint tremor of satisfaction stirred in her chest.

Paul turned away at last, returning to his seat. His tone was clipped, final. “That will be all, Princess. Leave us.”

Irulan gathered her scrolls with shaking hands and rose, her head bowed. She did not look at any of them as she walked out, but her silence screamed louder than any words.

The door closed behind her.

Paul reached for his cup again, as if nothing had happened.

The air in the corridor was thick with the taste of cruelty and the metallic tang of humiliation. Irulan had been dismissed, her scrolls left in a small, crooked pile where Paul had shoved them; her skirts whispered as she was shepherded out by embarrassed attendants. The family remained a ring of heat and stone around the long table.

Jessica rose first, the motion quiet but absolute. She moved to Paul’s side and laid a hand on his forearm — a touch not of comfort but of counsel. Her eyes, dark with worry, met his.

“You cannot kill her,” she said, low and steady. “Not now. Not ever, perhaps. The Sisterhood will not allow it, and the Cor­rino remnants will make a martyr of her. There are costs you will never be able to pay if you spill Corrino blood in the open. You must think of the Imperium, Paul — not only your wrath.”

Paul looked at her as if she had suggested they uproot a dune. He lifted his cup and sipped — slowly, deliberately — the spice-coffee catching the lamp-light. The blue in his eyes was a hard, cold blue now, as if the desert itself sat behind his gaze.

He set the cup down with a near-silent clink and smiled, but the smile had no warmth. It was a knife of a smile.

“I do not propose to kill her,” he said, each word measured, vicious in its calm. “I will not spill Corrino blood and give the Sisterhood a banner. I will not hand the Great Houses an avenging name.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping so the nearby servants could not hear, but the sentence hit like a thrown stone.

“But I will make her wish she could die.”

Jessica’s hand tightened on his arm. For a second she was a mother and not a Reverend Mother — afraid, furious, pleading. “Paul—”

He did not flinch. Instead he let the silence fill the space between them, a silence that seemed to grow teeth. Alia watched with a small, bright grin, delighted by the cruelty as a child delights in a new game. Chani stood very still, every line of her body taut; she heard the threat and felt how it tasted in the air.

Paul’s voice softened, but the edges remained. “There are many ways to unmake someone, Mother. I am patient. I am cleverer than ink. She will be stripped of honor, influence, friends. She will be exposed, undone, watched until she wishes the watch had ended in death. She will be left with her name and nothing else.”

Jessica closed her eyes a moment, the lines at her temples deepening. “Remember what you are, Paul. Mercy is not weakness; it is strategy. There are instruments of power other than cruelty.”

Paul’s hand rose, briefly — not to strike, but to still the argument. “I remember everything.” He looked to Chani, to Alia. “And I remember what she tried to take from me. From us. I will not give her a weapon she can wield.”

He let his gaze sweep the corridor — to the servants who dared not meet his eyes, to the empty pile of scrolls at the far end where Irulan had been humiliated. Then he straightened, the storm settling into something colder than rage.

“Watch,” he said finally. “I will make her life into a ledger where every entry robs her dignity and every acquaintance becomes a ledger line of shame. I will not dirty my hands with the blood that would make martyrs. I will do worse: I will take away what she values most.”

Jessica’s hand fell away slowly. There was nausea in her face now, the same sick recognition she had seen in other rooms of power. “You will ruin her,” she said softly.

Paul’s answer was almost gentle. “I will make history remember her properly,” he murmured — and in the way he said it, the meaning was a promise of annihilation in slow strokes.

Chapter Text

They came at dawn, when light was thin and the palace still held its sleep. Irulan’s men — not the blunt-handed guards of a noble house, but the kind of killers the Sisterhood could recruit when they wished to hide a deed: lithe, silent, faces veiled, cloaked in gray that swallowed the morning. They moved with a confidence born of contracts and deniability.

Chani smelled them before she saw them — the faint chemical tang of foreign oils on their cloaks, the way they avoided the spice-scented tiles as if they feared it. She was walking the inner corridor between the chambers and the training hall, breath even from the last exercises, when one of them slipped from the shadow and let a blade descend.

It was not loud. It never is. The first strike wanted throat and silence.

Chani’s body answered before her thought. Years in the sietch had honed an instinct to reflex; Paul’s training had given her the finesse to turn that reflex into art. The crysknife was in her hand in a blink — she had not been carrying one openly, but she had learned to make weapons of small things. She met the blade with steel and muscle, pivoting, sliding the assassin’s wrist aside and driving an elbow into a soft gap at the ribs. The man gurgled, surprised at meeting desert force in the palace’s marble light; he slumped.

Two more moved at once from the shadow of a pillar. Chani spun, a controlled whirl — knife flashing, foot sweeping. One went to the stones; the other lunged with a dagger meant for the heart. She caught the wrist between her knees, twisted, and the attacker found himself bowed and disarmed, staring up at her as if into a pit of sand. Her blade did not stop until the threat was finished.

The hall was suddenly alive with the sound of bodies and the metallic clatter of weapons. Servants screamed once, a high thin note that shattered the morning calm. Footsteps thundered — guards, slow to trust the speed of such intruders. Stilgar rounded the corner, eyes narrowed, spear already up; Paul came hard on his heels, mantle flaring, sight clear with that terrible prescience that made men shiver.

Chani was standing in the middle of the corridor when they reached her — breathing hard, robes splattered with the dark of blood, knife slick in her hand. Two bodies lay at her feet; another lay twisted farther down the hall. She did not look triumphant. She looked exhausted, furious, and utterly unbowed.

Paul’s face was a mask that split and remade itself at the sight. For an instant his prescient visions flared and died; then he stooped and helped Chani to steady herself. His hand closed over hers, not to take the knife but to hold her as if she were something the desert itself had given him to guard.

“Who sent them?” Stilgar demanded, voice low as a drumbeat.

Chani spat, throwing back her head. “Not the palace guards.” Her eyes, fierce as a hawk’s, swept the entryways. “They wore the smells of Irulan’s houses — oils, training. They were not the Corrino honor guards. They were made to disappear.” Her voice went quiet. “They were sent to finish what was started.”

Paul’s hand tightened around her fingers. He did not speak immediately; fury can be a slow, aching thing to shape into action. Alia had appeared behind them, small and shockingly composed, watching the scene with that odd, ancient smile.

Guards moved in, securing the corridor, dragging the bodies aside. Servants clutched their robes and looked to Paul and Chani as if the two of them were equal parts savior and storm. Word would travel: attempted murder in the palace. The Sisterhood had crossed a line.

Paul looked at Irulan’s chamber door, then at the fallen men. The slow, patient plotting he had vowed would make Irulan wish she could die had shifted into a new register. An attempted assassination could be punished with public spectacle; it could be answered with a quiet, exact cruelty that would leave records and ruin.

Chani sank onto a bench, shaking only slightly. Stilgar knelt to bind her arm where a shallow cut had opened and hissed a curse at the thought of assassins in the palace halls. Jessica came, face drawn, and took in the scene with the cool, scrutinizing look of a Reverend Mother who knew the Sisterhood’s hand — and its limits.

Alia stepped forward, wreathed in that unsettling childlike light, and picked up one of the assassins’ cloaks. She sniffed it like a hound. “Irulan will learn what it means to send killers into our home,” she said, voice soft and absolute. “She will not be able to hide behind ink and titles now.”

Paul’s jaw clenched. He looked down at Chani, at the knife in her hand, at the bodies arranged like a grim lesson at her feet. He had promised ruin by other means; now the law of reciprocity had a different face.

“Tell the captain,” Paul said at last, voice measured. “The palace doors close. No one leaves without my leave. Guard the corridors. And find her agents — every woman and man who spoke with them in the last moon. Bring their names. We will not make martyrs of killers, but we will unmake those who sent them.”

Stilgar bowed his head once, and the guards vanished like shadows to do his will. Jessica stayed close, taking Chani’s other hand, anti-poison and mother both. Paul’s hand remained heavy and warm over Chani’s, a promise that whatever came, they would answer it together.

Outside, the city would learn soon: an assassination attempt had failed, and the Fremen woman who had survived worse than desert storms would not be hidden again. Inside, plans began to take shape — not of immediate vengeance, but of exposure, of cutting Irulan from the court until she had nothing left but her name and the bitter knowledge of what she had attempted.

The palace settled into a new, brittle order: the killers had failed; the war beneath the war had become open

The assassins did not stop.

At first, they came in twos and threes — shadows slinking through the palace corridors, knives dripping with poisons known only to the Sisterhood. But every attempt met the same end: Chani’s crysknife flashing, her training honed by Paul and Alia cutting sharper each night.

By the second week, they grew bolder. Five attacked her in the outer courtyard, leaping from the colonnade with blades drawn. She fought them in silence but for her breath — parry, pivot, slash, the desert’s fury in her movements. Three fell before they even touched her. The last two she cornered against the marble wall, their fear betraying them before her steel did.

Whispers spread through the palace: The Emperor’s concubine kills her assassins with her bare hands. The servants no longer gasped; they fled at the first sign of violence, leaving Chani to fight alone in the echoing halls. And still, each time, she lived.

One night, beneath the painted ceiling of the western passage, another band came. Seven this time, clad in black, armed not only with knives but with dart-guns tipped with subtle venom. They encircled her, confident, trained.

Chani stood at the center, her body poised like a drawn bow.

“You were sent by her,” she hissed, voice low.

They said nothing.

Then the knives came.

She moved with a terrible grace — ducking, twisting, letting one strike pass so she could bury her blade in another’s heart. A dart skimmed her arm; she ignored the sting and drove her knee into the throat of the shooter. She rolled beneath a sweep of steel, rose, and cut two more down in a blur.

When it was over, the hall was littered with bodies. Her breathing was ragged, her arms spattered with blood, but her stance unbroken.

Then, as she stood amid the silence, the adrenaline still roaring through her, she felt something else.

A stirring.

Not the echo of poison. Not the hollow ache that had haunted her since Irulan’s first plot. This was different — deeper, subtle but undeniable. A warmth inside her belly that pulsed with life, fragile yet fierce.

Her knife slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. She pressed her palms against her abdomen, her breath catching.

“Paul…” she whispered, though no one was there to hear.

For all the assassins Irulan had sent, for all the poisons, all the blades, all the attempts to erase her — Chani felt it then: she carried life. The desert had answered.

And for the first time in many long months, she smiled, even with blood drying on her skin.

The heavy door to their chamber slammed open.

Paul strode in, cloak swirling, his eyes sharp with fury and prescience both. His gaze locked instantly on the carnage: Chani, standing in the middle of the chamber, her robe torn and soaked with blood — some hers, most not. At her feet lay the bodies of the latest assassins, strewn across the tiles like discarded shadows.

“Chani!” His voice cracked like thunder. He was at her side in two strides, hands gripping her shoulders, scanning her with a soldier’s eyes, frantic as a lover’s. “Are you hurt? Tell me—where—”

She shook her head, firm, though her breath still came uneven. “Not mine,” she said softly, and then, almost as if the words had been carried by something greater than her own will, she added, “Paul…I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, the world stilled.

Paul froze, his blue-on-blue eyes widening, his hands still gripping her blood-stained shoulders. He searched her face as if it might be a mirage, a trick laid by the Sisterhood, another poisoned dream. But then he felt it — not with sight, not with prescience, but with something deeper. A shift in the fabric of possibility, a fragile flame already burning in the desert’s wind.

His voice fell to a whisper. “…You’re certain.”

Chani’s hand moved to her belly, trembling but resolute. “I know it. I feel it. After everything Irulan tried to take… the desert has given back.”

The knife in Paul’s hand — he had come armed, ready for vengeance — fell to the floor with a dull clang. He pulled her to him, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, his face buried against her hair.

“Then no blade, no poison, no Sisterhood plot will touch you again,” he said, voice raw, almost breaking. “Not while I live. Not while the desert remembers my name.”

Chani closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. The scent of blood and spice clung to them both, but beneath it now was something stronger: hope.

For the first time in months, Paul’s fury was tempered by something else. Not peace, not yet. But purpose.

Because now it was not only vengeance he carried, not only the throne. Now it was the fragile promise of their child — a future the Sisterhood could never erase.

The blood had barely dried on the tiles when Paul summoned his captains. Guards arrived in pairs, then in waves, their armor glinting under the torchlight, their faces pale from the news that another attempt had come within the palace walls.

Paul stood before them, one hand still resting on Chani’s shoulder as if anchoring her to him. His voice was low, controlled, but carried the weight of command that brooked no dissent.

“From this moment,” he said, “the guard is doubled around her chambers, in the corridors, in the courtyards. No servant passes her door without my leave. No delegate breathes her air without my sight upon them. If Irulan sends so much as a shadow, I want it burned before it crosses the threshold.”

The men bowed as one.

Paul turned then, his eyes finding Stilgar where he stood like a carved pillar at the edge of the hall. The Naib’s face was grim, his crysknife already slick with assassin blood from the skirmish.

“Stilgar,” Paul said.

“My Emperor,” Stilgar replied, stepping forward.

Paul’s voice dropped, intimate but iron. “You are her bodyguard now. Day and night. No blade, no whisper, no trick of poison will reach her without first passing through you. She carries more than my love now. She carries the desert’s future.”

Something shifted in Stilgar’s expression — a flicker of pride, of awe, of sorrow all at once. He bowed deeply, pressing his fist to his chest. “By my blood and my crysknife, she will be safe. Not a breath shall pass her unsworn.”

Chani turned to him, her eyes glistening but steady. “Stil… I need no keeper.”

Stilgar’s weathered face softened, but his answer was unyielding. “No, Sayyadina. You need only a shield. And I will be that shield.”

Paul’s arm slid around her shoulders, drawing her close, his eyes still blazing with the vision of assassins in the halls. “This palace will become a fortress,” he said. “And the fortress will have one heart. No one — not Sisterhood, not Corrino, not noble whisper — will ever touch it.”

Chani’s hand moved again to her belly, and for the first time, Stilgar’s eyes followed the gesture with understanding. His expression deepened into reverence, as though he beheld a secret blessing from Shai-Hulud itself.

It was unveiled on a day of petitions, when the nobles and delegates gathered in the great hall to lay their grievances at the feet of Muad’Dib. The chamber was already heavy with the musk of fear and incense when the nobles saw it for the first time.

Next to Paul’s massive stone throne, carved from the bedrock of Arrakeen itself, stood another. Smaller, yes, but no less deliberate. Its lines were sharp and clean, etched with desert motifs, its seat draped in the woven silks of Fremen craft. It was not the throne of an empress, nor the decoration of a consort’s stool — it was a seat of authority, set just high enough to stand above the courtiers’ gaze.

Chani sat upon it, her posture unshaken, her crysknife resting openly against her thigh.

A ripple moved through the chamber. Nobles exchanged glances, whispers slithering through the rows.

“Absurd.”
“A concubine—on the dais?”
“This mocks the throne itself…”

Paul heard every word. His prescient sense carried each whisper to him as though shouted. He let them coil and writhe in their fear until the hall grew restless, until the tension became a rope ready to snap. Then he rose.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the throne at his side, “is no whim. This is no indulgence of a man for his beloved. This is recognition.”

The words struck like stones.

“She is Fremen. She is Sayyadina. She has bled beside me in desert wars, and it is she who counseled me when empire would have swallowed me whole. She has endured assassins, poison, and plots, and yet she lives. And now she carries my heir.”

The hall erupted in a low storm of whispers.

Paul’s hand tightened on the arm of his throne. His voice cut across the noise like a blade.

“You will not call her concubine. You will not call her lesser. She sits here because without her, I would not sit at all. She is desert and fire, counsel and shield. She is my strength, and so she will share my throne.”

Some nobles bowed quickly, fearful. Others stiffened, their pride smoldering, but none dared speak openly.

Alia leaned forward from her smaller seat to the side, smirking. “I would suggest you all bow deeper. You’ve already lived this long by the grace of her patience.”

Jessica, standing near the dais, let out a faint sigh, half disapproval, half weary recognition of inevitability.

Chani said nothing. She simply sat — straight-backed, blue-on-blue eyes fixed forward — and in her silence, her presence pressed heavier on the court than any noble title could have.

The chamber was restless, nobles shifting in their finery, their whispers a thousand small knives. Paul sat, calm but unreadable, beside him the new throne that bore Chani. Her presence alone was a scandal to them.

And then she rose.

The sound was simple — the brush of woven silk, the faint clink of her crysknife — but the hall went utterly still. All eyes turned, most expecting silence, others bracing for some show of Fremen savagery. What they received was neither.

Chani’s voice rang clear, each word carrying the cadence of the desert, clipped and precise.

“You doubt me,” she said, her eyes sweeping the chamber. “You look upon me and see only a concubine, a distraction, an insult to your traditions. But know this: I am Fremen. Where you speak of thrones and titles, I speak of survival. Where you balance ledgers, I balance water. And where you barter favors, I barter lives.”

A murmur rippled through the nobles, unease mingling with interest. Chani did not falter.

“You say I do not understand politics.” She tilted her chin, eyes narrowing. “But politics is nothing more than trade. You trade power. We traded blood for water. Which bargain do you think weighs heavier?”

Some nobles shifted uncomfortably; others frowned, but they listened.

She moved a step forward, her hand resting on the arm of her throne. “You speak of diplomacy, but I have walked among sietches where death was a daily vote. I have seen tribes that would have slaughtered one another sit at the same fire because we gave them a reason to live together. That is negotiation, not the soft words you hide behind.”

Her gaze sharpened, piercing a cluster of whispering lords. “You call yourselves rulers. Tell me—how many of you would still hold your titles if every drop of water in your keep depended on the trust of your enemy? We Fremen built unity out of nothing but sand, blood, and faith. Can you claim as much?”

The hall was silent now. The murmurs had died. Even the skeptical nobles found their eyes locked on her.

Chani’s voice dropped, steady and fierce. “You will learn to respect me not because I share Muad’Dib’s bed, but because I have survived where you would not last a single night. And because I see your games for what they are. And if you doubt me—” she laid her hand on her crysknife, “—then doubt the steel that carves your names from memory.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy as storm clouds. No one dared speak against her. Even the boldest noble stared at the floor.

Paul watched in silence, a small flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Alia grinned like a cat. Jessica’s lips pressed tight, but her eyes betrayed a grudging respect.

When Chani sat again, the court did not whisper. They only bowed deeper than they ever had before.

The heavy doors of the throne room shut with a final boom, leaving behind the echo of silence where once there had been whispers.

Paul led Chani through the long corridors, his hand brushing against hers in the quiet, his stride calmer than it had been in weeks. The guards followed at a respectful distance, but their presence was little more than shadow. When the couple reached their chambers, Paul dismissed them with a flick of his hand.

Inside, the room was warm with lamplight, the air carrying faint notes of spice and desert herbs. Chani pulled the silk shawl from her shoulders and let it fall across the cushions. Her breath came heavier now that the performance was over.

Paul crossed the space and drew her into his arms. For a moment he simply held her, his forehead against hers.

“You silenced them,” he said at last, his voice low and threaded with pride. “More than I ever could with my titles or my visions. You cut them with words sharper than any crysknife.”

Chani’s lips curved, weary but fierce. “They think me a savage. Let them. It makes it easier to strike when their guard is lowered.”

Paul pulled back just enough to see her eyes, his own blue-on-blue gaze softened. “No, Chani. Today they saw more. They saw the desert’s wisdom dressed in fire. They will never forget it.”

She exhaled slowly, sinking onto the edge of the wide bed, stretching out her tired limbs. “Words are not water, Usul. They do not quench the thirst. Tomorrow they will whisper again.”

Paul sat beside her, taking her hand, his thumb tracing the scar along her palm. “Then let them whisper. The desert teaches us that whispers can be carried far, but they always die in the storm.”

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, her hand slipping once more to her belly — protective, unconscious. Paul’s gaze followed the movement, softening further. He covered her hand with his, their fingers interlaced.

“We will protect this life,” he murmured, almost to himself. “No poison, no knife, no ink will take it from us.”

Chani tilted her face up, her eyes steady, voice barely more than a whisper. “Then rest with me tonight, Paul. Let the storm wait until morning.”

For the first time in months, Paul allowed himself to close his eyes, the weight of empire set aside, if only for a moment. The two of them lay together in the quiet glow of the lamps, the desert’s future nestled between them, and for a fleeting breath of time, the world beyond their chamber ceased to exist.

Chapter Text

Meals in the palace changed.

Every tray, every platter, every steaming dish that arrived at Chani’s chambers first passed to Alia. The girl accepted the task with an unnerving glee — dipping fingers into sauces, sipping spice-coffee with a sly grin, and popping morsels of fruit into her mouth as if she were a taster at some grotesque feast.

“Too sour,” she’d say, wrinkling her nose. Or, “Not enough spice. Are they trying to poison us with blandness instead?”

Servants trembled at her mockery, but no one dared withdraw the plates until Alia declared them safe. Jessica watched in silence, disapproval etched across her face, though she did not intervene. The Bene Gesserit in her recognized the necessity, even as the mother in her recoiled.

Paul, meanwhile, left nothing wanting. He ordered Chani’s chambers lined with silks from Caladan, fresh herbs from the conservatories, the softest woven cushions of the Fremen. Water-bearers poured crystal basins for her every morning, and guards ringed her quarters like an unbroken wall. Even the wind seemed forbidden to touch her without his leave.

And Irulan — Irulan was gone from the halls.

The nobles asked after her absence in timid whispers, but Paul silenced them with a glance. The truth spread anyway: the princess was confined. Her golden rooms were stripped of their courtly finery, her doors watched by loyal guards. She was no longer permitted the council chamber, nor the library, nor even the courtyard gardens.

Paul himself entered her chambers only once to deliver her new command. He stood at her desk, staring at the piles of scrolls she had already tried to twist into histories that erased Chani.

“You will write,” he said, his voice low and merciless. “Not your fantasies. Not your lies. You will record as I tell you. You will set down every truth you once tried to bury, and you will put your own name to it so that future eyes may see both the truth and your attempt to kill it.”

Irulan had raised her chin, defiant though pale. “And if I refuse?”

Paul’s eyes burned blue-on-blue, bottomless as the desert. “You will not refuse. You will write until your hand cramps, until the parchment bleeds with your corrections. You will write until you beg for ink to dry your shame.”

He had turned then, cloak whispering against the stone floor, leaving her seated at her desk with stylus in hand. The sound of the lock sliding into place behind him was final.

In the days that followed, the palace whispered two truths:
That Chani, Muad’Dib’s chosen, lived in guarded luxury, her every breath protected by the Emperor himself.
And that Irulan Corrino, Princess Royal of the Imperium, was now little more than a scribe in her gilded cage, writing the history she had once tried to erase.

Chani felt the palace tighten around her like the bands of a stillsuit. Every day brought more guards at her doors, more careful eyes tracking her steps. She could not walk the balcony without a pair of warriors shadowing her, nor take a turn through the gardens without Stilgar’s watchful presence hovering near.

Paul meant it as love — and in truth, it was love, fierce and burning as the Arrakeen sun — but it left her restless. She was Sayyadina, a woman of the desert, a fighter who had bled in the dunes beside him. To be swaddled in silks and guarded as though she were glass… it stung.

Yet every time she opened her mouth to protest, Paul silenced her with a touch — his hand over hers, his eyes fierce with the terror of prescience. “I will not lose you,” he said once, voice low, breaking, when she had pressed him too hard. “Not to blade, not to poison, not even to time. You are the center of what comes, Chani. If I falter, it all collapses. You will not leave my sight.”

She had no answer to that, only the ache of knowing he meant it more than he meant himself.

And then there was Alia.

The girl inserted herself into Chani’s days with unnerving delight, perching in her chambers like a hawk-child. She tasted every dish before Chani’s lips touched it, smirking as though it were a game. She tested cushions for softness, lectured servants on their slowness, and once even rifled through Chani’s robes, declaring half of them unworthy of a Sayyadina who would bear Muad’Dib’s heir.

“You’re a little tyrant,” Chani said once, watching her with both irritation and reluctant amusement.

Alia only smiled, her small white teeth flashing. “Better a tyrant who protects you than a sister-wife who poisons you.”

The words chilled the air, though Alia delivered them as though reciting a riddle.

Chani did not trust the child, not fully — how could she, when behind those blue-on-blue eyes lived the voices of ancient Bene Gesserit memories? And yet… she could not deny that Alia’s devotion was real. Strange, unsettling, but real. The girl watched her meals with a hawk’s eye, snapped at servants who lingered too close, and more than once slept curled on the rug outside Chani’s chamber door as though daring any assassin to step near.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, Chani wondered if Alia guarded her out of love — or out of a darker fascination, as if protecting her meant protecting the story unfolding in Alia’s own strange, ancient mind.

Still, she let the girl remain. Better a predator at her side than one circling in the dark.

And so Chani endured: Paul’s fierce, suffocating protection, Alia’s unnerving devotion, Stilgar’s steady watch. She lived each day as though wrapped in layers of shields. And though the weight of it pressed on her like sandstorms, one truth sustained her through it all.

She pressed her palm against her belly when no one watched, whispering silently to the life growing within.

The once-proud chambers of Irulan Corrino had grown silent. Once, they had been alive with the rustle of silk gowns and the chatter of visiting nobles, the perfume of exotic oils drifting through the air. Now, the curtains were drawn tight, the guards at her door implacable, their faces as unyielding as stone.

Irulan sat at her writing desk, stylus in hand, scrolls stacked around her like a prison of parchment. Her reflection in the polished bronze mirror mocked her — hair loose, robes plain, eyes hollow.

Every day the guards delivered more blank vellum. Every night, her hand cramped from setting down the histories Paul demanded: Chani’s name, Chani’s deeds, Chani’s survival. Each line she wrote was an act of self-betrayal, each correction a scar etched across her pride.

She had been bred to rule, schooled to be the unseen architect of empire, yet here she was — a scribe. A prisoner with ink-stained fingers.

Worse still was the silence. No more whispered reports from her spies. No more letters from her sisters in the Bene Gesserit. No couriers, no council, no companions. Even her food was delivered under the watch of Paul’s handpicked men, and she knew the plates passed through Alia’s venomous little hands before reaching her.

And the whispers that did reach her — faint echoes carried by servants who thought she could not hear — cut deepest of all.

Chani sat beside Muad’Dib on a throne of her own.
Chani silenced the nobles with her tongue sharper than steel.
Chani carries his heir.

Irulan clenched her stylus so tightly it snapped. Ink splattered across her knuckles like blood. She pressed the broken reed into the parchment until the tip tore through.

How far she had fallen. A princess of Corrino, daughter of an Emperor, a queen in name — reduced to a ghost in her own palace, humiliated, forgotten, erased not by her enemies but by the man she had been forced to call husband.

The Bene Gesserit had promised her she would shape the future. But the Sisterhood did not send letters, did not send guidance. They had abandoned her to this exile.

Irulan pressed her forehead against the desk, her breath shuddering, torn between rage and despair. Yet somewhere beneath the humiliation, a coal of resolve smoldered.

They had silenced her voice. But history was still her weapon. Even if she was made to write Chani’s name, even if she was forced to exalt the concubine she despised, there were ways to bend a story. Ways to lay seeds for the future, small enough that Paul might not see them.

Irulan closed her eyes, whispering to herself in the dim silence of her chamber:

“You cannot erase a Corrino. You cannot erase me.”

And with trembling but determined hands, she reached for another blank scroll.

The cries began faintly at first — drifting up from the lower terraces of Arrakeen, carried on the hot wind. A sound that was half prayer, half chant. But soon it swelled, the rhythm of many voices rising in unison, the cadence unmistakably Fremen.

From the balcony of her chambers, Chani leaned against the carved stone balustrade, her hand resting on the swell of her belly. Below, in the wide courtyards and streets, throngs of Fremen knelt, their robes dark against the sand, their foreheads pressed to the ground.

“Muad’Dib’s mate… Sayyadina… the holy mother of the heir…”

The chants rolled upward, fervent, desperate, like a tide battering the walls of the palace. Some held up flasks of water as offerings. Others raised blades, swearing them to her unborn child. The desert had made her more than Paul’s beloved now — she was becoming a symbol, a vessel for their faith.

Alia stood beside her, small hands gripping the railing, her eyes glimmering with that strange, ancient brightness. She tilted her head, listening to the chants, a smile curving her lips.

“They will worship you as they worship him,” Alia said softly. “And perhaps… more. A mother carries the storm within her. A father only wields it.”

Chani frowned, her throat tight. “I never asked for this.”

Alia’s grin sharpened, far too knowing for a child. “Neither did he. Neither did I. But the desert does not care what we ask. It shapes what it will. You carry a seed of power greater than their prayers can name. They kneel because they fear it. Because they need it.”

Chani shook her head, though her hand drifted again to her belly, protective, uncertain. The chants below rose in pitch, the crowd surging as though they could reach her through stone and air.

“Holy mother,” the voices thundered. “Bless the heir!”

Alia leaned close, her voice almost a whisper, sweet and cutting all at once. “Does it frighten you, sister, to be a goddess? Or does it thrill you?”

Chani said nothing. She stood in silence, watching the thousands below, the desert’s faith fastening itself to her whether she willed it or not.

For the first time, she felt not only the weight of Paul’s love and Irulan’s hatred — but the terrible, inexorable burden of a people who saw in her womb the promise of a messiah yet to come.

The war-room was dim, lit only by the glow of the holotable. A map of the Imperium sprawled across the air, worlds highlighted in blood-red where Muad’Dib’s banner now flew.

A commander knelt before Paul, his armor still dusted with travel. “Majesty… the Jihad spreads. Sietch-born fighters now lead campaigns beyond Arrakis. Giedi Prime burns. The old Harkonnen factories are nothing but ash. On Salusa Secundus, the Sardaukar fled to the mountains before our Fremen blades. They will not rise again.”

The man hesitated, then added: “On Caladan itself, they sing your name with blood on their lips. Priests have sanctified rivers in your honor. Entire villages march in your banner’s colors.”

Paul did not move. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes locked on the shifting map. The red light flickered across his face, stark and merciless.

Behind him, Jessica stood near the wall, silent, her presence cool and watchful. Her hands were folded, but her sharp eyes measured every word. She had warned him, time and again, of what unchecked zeal would bring. Now she saw it laid bare.

Closer still, Chani sat with quiet dignity, her form wrapped in soft silks that belied the warrior within. Her hand rested on her belly, a gesture now almost constant. She said nothing, but Paul could feel her gaze pressing into his back — steady, questioning, troubled.

Another officer stepped forward. “Majesty, reports speak of a million dead across the outer worlds. Cities toppled, temples to the old gods torn down. They call it the cleansing of the Imperium.” He bowed lower. “All in your name.”

The chamber was quiet but for the hum of the holotable.

Paul’s voice, when it came, was quiet, almost toneless. “And still they chant my name.”

“Yes, Muad’Dib.”

Paul turned slightly then, his gaze flicking past the maps to where Jessica and Chani stood. His mother’s face was lined with disapproval, her lips pressed tight, but she said nothing. Chani’s eyes met his — fierce, unyielding — and for an instant, he saw her fear not for herself but for the child she carried.

Paul turned back to the map. His fingers clenched behind his back until his knuckles whitened.

“Dismissed,” he said softly.

The officers bowed and withdrew, leaving only family in the echoing chamber.

Jessica finally broke the silence, her voice low, her tone sharp as steel. “You see, Paul. You see what your name has unleashed.”

Chani shifted, her voice quieter, sadder. “They kill for you. And for our child yet unborn.”

Paul closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked less like an Emperor and more like a man caught between visions too vast for flesh to bear.

Reports poured in daily, like a tide of blood.

The holotable glowed redder with each passing week — entire sectors flashing beneath Muad’Dib’s sigil. Cities that resisted were reduced to ash, their governors dragged in chains to Arrakeen. Houses that bent the knee were showered with spice-rich contracts, their scions granted positions of honor at court.

Paul ruled with a hand that was both iron and open palm.

To those who defied him, he was merciless. On Balut IX, a governor who dared to speak the old Corrino name was publicly executed — his head displayed at the gates while his household was disbanded. On Kaitain itself, when whispers rose of Corrino loyalists, Paul’s Sardaukar-turned-Fremen warriors slaughtered the last of them in the palaces they once thought impregnable.

But to those who swore loyalty, he offered riches and power. Spice flowed like rivers into the coffers of Houses Minor who proclaimed his rule. Guild Navigators were gifted with entire reservoirs of spice, ensuring their silence. Priests who preached in his name were rewarded with gold and water rights beyond anything their orders had once known.

The duality of his reign spread like wildfire — merciless annihilation for the disobedient, lavish reward for the faithful. And across the Imperium, fear became indistinguishable from devotion.

Jessica watched it unfold in silence, her eyes heavy with disapproval. She saw in her son the tightening grip of destiny, and in the endless expansion the shadow of a trap closing around them all.

Chani sat often at his side in these councils, her silence steady but her eyes troubled. She felt the weight of every report, every world burned in his name. And though Paul kept her guarded, fed, worshipped as mother of the heir, she saw the desert consuming him.

Paul himself seemed unmoved by the tally of lives. When reports of slaughter came, he did not flinch. When supplicants groveled, he granted reward without joy. His voice was cold, absolute:

“Those who resist will die. Those who kneel will thrive. The Imperium will remember the lesson of fire and spice.”

Even the nobles who once whispered of his concubine fell silent. The man they had thought of as a usurper had become something worse, and greater — a force of inevitability.

And always, in the shadow of his throne, the chants grew louder, now not only for Muad’Dib but for Chani as well. Holy mother. Holy blood. Heir of the desert.

The Jihad had become unstoppable, and Paul knew it. His hands, no matter how he tried, were already red with the fire of inevitability.

Chapter Text

Chani’s belly had begun to show. The palace seamstresses altered her robes daily, fussing over silks and desert weaves until she threatened to cut them away herself. Where once her body had been all sinew and speed, there was now a gentle curve that shifted her balance, and with it, the eyes of the world.

The whispers of holy mother grew louder. Pilgrims pressed against the gates to glimpse her, to cry blessings on the unborn heir. In the sietches, Sayyadina spoke her name in reverent tones, binding her to prophecy.

Irulan heard all of it from her prison chamber. Every chant outside her barred window was a dagger in her pride. She pressed stylus to parchment until her hand bled, her bitterness seeping into every line even as she wrote the histories Paul demanded. She cursed the womb she had been denied, cursed the concubine who now walked as a goddess. It should have been me, she whispered into the silence, again and again, her voice raw.

But beyond the locked door, life moved on.

One late afternoon, Chani left her chambers with Alia at her side. The child insisted on coming, as she often did, darting like a shadow where the guards could not keep up. Together they walked the palace gardens — an oasis of green crafted by offworld engineers, streams running with hoarded water.

But peace could not last.

A cluster of peasants had forced their way past the outer guards. Zealots, wild-eyed, desperate. They fell to their knees at the sight of Chani, crying out:

“Bless us, holy mother! Spill your water for us! Touch us with the heir!”

Chani froze, startled, her hand instinctively shielding her belly. The guards rushed forward but hesitated, unsure whether to drive off supplicants who called her divine.

Then one man lunged too close. His hands outstretched, his eyes blazing with fanatic hunger. “The child!” he cried. “Give us the blessing of its blood!”

Alia moved before anyone else.

The girl drew her crysknife in one fluid motion, her small body darting forward with unnatural precision. She slit the man’s throat before his fingers could brush Chani’s robe. Blood sprayed the garden stones.

Another zealot screamed and rushed forward. This time Chani herself reacted, unsheathing her own blade despite her swelling belly. Her strike was clean, efficient — years of training condensed into a single cut. The man fell beside his companion, the earth drinking deep.

The rest scattered, shrieking, trampling each other in their flight. Guards surged forward to contain them, but the work was already done.

Alia stood in the fading light, her small figure spattered with blood, her knife glinting like a star. She looked up at Chani with a smile that was too calm, too ancient for a child.

“They would have touched you,” Alia said simply, almost sweetly. “They would have touched him.” Her gaze flicked to Chani’s belly, then back up. “We cannot allow that.”

Chani’s hand tightened on her knife, her breath sharp. She looked down at the bodies cooling on the stones, then at the strange, terrible child beside her.

And though her heart still raced, she did not rebuke Alia. Instead, she sheathed her blade slowly, resting her other hand protectively on her stomach.

“Come,” Chani said, voice steady. “We go back. Enough blood for one evening.”

The report reached Paul before he entered the throne room. His guards knelt, heads bowed low, speaking quickly, uneasily.

“Majesty… there was an incident in the palace gardens. Zealots breached the outer line. They pressed upon the Lady Chani. The Lady… and the young Sayyadina… dispatched them before your guard could intervene.”

Paul stopped in his stride. The torchlight flickered across his face, shadowing the planes of his expression. For a moment, he was utterly still.

Behind him, the murmur of the nobles swelled like the hiss of serpents. Word traveled fast. Already the whispers had taken shape: The holy mother is no gentle saint. She sheds blood as swiftly as Muad’Dib himself.

Paul turned slowly, his cloak whispering against the marble floor. His blue-in-blue eyes narrowed, their depth unreadable.

“Chani killed them,” he said, not as a question but as a statement, tasting the truth in the air.

The guard swallowed. “Yes, Majesty. And the young Sayyadina struck first.”

For an instant something unguarded flashed across Paul’s face — pride, raw and dangerous, quickly tempered by something darker.

When he entered their chambers, Chani was seated near the low firepit, her hands steady as she wiped her blade clean. Alia lounged nearby, humming under her breath, the child’s crysknife already sheathed, her eyes glittering with unrepentant amusement.

Paul said nothing at first. He crossed the room and looked down at the woman who carried his heir, her face calm, her robe still faintly flecked with blood.

“They whisper now that you are as ruthless as I,” he said finally, his voice low.

Chani did not flinch. She met his gaze, her own as sharp as her blade. “Let them whisper. I did what was needed. They would have touched me. They would have touched our child.”

Alia smirked, her small voice cutting in. “The holy mother and the holy knife. Let them sing that song next.”

Paul’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking between them — his fierce concubine, his uncanny sister. Both stained with blood in his name, both unashamed.

Then he stepped closer, kneeling before Chani, his hands covering hers, firm and protective. “You are no weapon, Chani,” he said, his voice harsh, almost desperate. “You are the reason I fight. The reason I endure this storm.”

She squeezed his hand in return, her voice steady. “And yet when the storm comes to my door, I will not sit idle. I am Fremen. I am your knife as much as your love.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Finally Paul rose, his cloak swirling, and turned to the door.

“To the court,” he told the guards outside, his voice steel. “Spread this truth: let them tremble if they will. Chani stands beside me not only as mother, but as blade. Any who dare raise hand or whisper against her… will find their blood soaking Arrakis’ stones.”

The words carried like thunder through the palace halls. And beyond the walls, in the streets of Arrakeen, the legend grew — Muad’Dib and his ruthless consort, twin storms of the desert, no longer to be separated in fear or devotion.

The gardens had been scrubbed clean of blood, though Paul knew the stones remembered. Water still trickled through the narrow channels — a luxury engineered to show Arrakeen’s wealth. The scent of spice roses and desert herbs hung in the cool evening air, heavy and bittersweet.

Paul walked slowly, his hands clasped behind him, his cloak trailing across the stones. Beside him, Chani moved with measured grace, one hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. Guards lingered at the edge of the walkways, but Paul had ordered them to keep their distance. For this evening, he wanted no interruptions.

They stopped beneath a tall flowering tree imported from Caladan, its pale blossoms glowing faintly in the dusk. Paul reached up and brushed one of the petals with his fingers, then looked at Chani.

“They whisper that you are my shadow now,” he said. “That your knife is as feared as mine. They will add it to their prayers. ‘Muad’Dib and his consort, twin storms of the desert.’”

Chani’s lips curved faintly, wry. “Then let them pray. It matters little. Words cannot shield a child.” She stroked her stomach absently. “I care only for this.”

Paul’s gaze followed her hand, and for a moment the hard line of his face softened. He took her free hand gently, holding it between both of his. “I fear for you, always,” he admitted, his voice low. “The future… it opens before me like a thousand doors, and too many of them end in blood. Too many take you from me.”

Chani studied him, her dark eyes steady, unshaken. “And yet here I am. Alive. Breathing. Carrying the desert’s gift. You see too much, Usul. You let shadows blind you to what is real.” She lifted his hand and pressed it against her belly. “This is real. Feel it. Our child lives. The desert gives.”

For a heartbeat, Paul closed his eyes. His hand trembled slightly under hers, but he said nothing. The whispers of the Jihad, the cries of a million dead, faded into the rustle of leaves and the soft sound of her breathing.

“You are my anchor,” he murmured. “Without you, I would be lost in the storm.”

Chani leaned against him then, her head resting against his shoulder. The night deepened, stars glimmering faintly above Arrakeen’s towers. For the first time in weeks, Paul allowed himself to breathe, to hold her without fear or calculation.

But still, in the quiet, the faintest echo of chanting carried from the city below. Not only his name this time, but hers as well.

Muad’Dib. Holy Mother. Muad’Dib. Holy Mother.

Chani heard it, and she sighed. “They will make us gods whether we wish it or not.”

Paul’s eyes were on the stars, hard again. “Then we must show them what gods can do.”

The chants from the city ebbed and swelled like the sea, but Paul pretended not to hear. He shifted, turning so he could look at Chani directly. The lamplight from the palace windows caught her face, highlighting the fierce lines of her jaw, the softness in her eyes.

Paul reached out, his hand brushing along the curve of her stomach again, gentler this time. “When I touch you here,” he said quietly, “I see so many paths. Some bright, some so dark I dare not speak of them. Each one pulls at me. Each one demands something of me. But never once… never once do I see peace.”

Chani tilted her head, studying him. “You are Muad’Dib, Usul. The desert never gave you peace. Why should it give it to your child?”

His lips twitched at her bluntness, though his eyes stayed clouded. “Because I would give everything I have for it,” he said, almost fiercely. “For him. For her. For you. I would burn the Imperium to ash if it meant you lived, if the child lived.”

Chani’s hand covered his, steady, grounding him. “Do not burn the universe, Paul. Children cannot grow in ash.”

They stood like that for a long moment — her hand atop his, both pressed to the life between them.

“Do you fear it?” Paul asked suddenly.

Chani blinked. “Fear what?”

He swallowed. “The child. Bringing it into this storm.”

Chani was silent, then her gaze drifted toward the city lights. “Yes,” she admitted finally. “I fear it every day. I fear the knife, the poison, the weight of their worship. I fear the voices that will be whispered into our child’s ears before it can even walk.” She looked back at him, her voice softer. “But I also know this — the desert does not give without purpose. This child was meant. And fear will not stop me from loving it.”

Paul’s throat tightened. He bent his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “You speak as though you’ve always been wiser than me.”

Chani smirked faintly. “Perhaps I have.”

His breath caught in a laugh, raw and small. He kissed her then, not with the fire of passion but with the desperate tenderness of a man holding to his anchor in the middle of a storm.

When they parted, Chani whispered, “You are their god, Usul. But to me, you are only a man. Our child must know that too. Promise me.”

Paul opened his eyes, searching hers. “I promise,” he said, though in the depths of his prescience he knew promises were fragile things.

Chapter Text

The night Arrakis’ moons rose full over the desert, the air of Arrakeen itself seemed to hold its breath.

In the birthing chamber, lit with the faint glow of oil lamps, Chani labored. Sweat glistened on her brow, her hair damp and clinging to her temples. Midwives moved silently, their hands precise and practiced, though even they cast nervous glances toward the door where guards stood rigid. The scent of spice and blood mingled, thick in the air.

Paul was there. He would not be moved, despite Jessica’s sharp disapproval. He knelt beside Chani, holding her hand through each wave of pain. His face was pale, but his blue-on-blue eyes never wavered. Every breath she took, he matched. Every cry, he bore as though it tore his flesh as well.

Alia lingered at the wall, unnaturally still, her strange child’s eyes watching with ancient calm. “The desert chooses this hour,” she murmured, almost to herself. “The moons see all.”

Beyond the walls of the palace, Arrakeen thundered. Throngs of Fremen had gathered in and around Muad’Dib’s temple, spilling into the streets, their voices lifted as one. Prayers echoed against the stone, carried up into the night air:

“Bless her, Sayyadina!
Bless the holy mother!
Bless the heir of Muad’Dib!”

They beat their chests, raised flasks of water skyward, cut their palms so droplets of blood would fall onto the dust in sacrifice. Their chants rose and fell with the rhythm of Chani’s labor, as though the city itself were pushing, straining, crying with her.

Inside, Chani gasped, her cry raw, teeth clenched. She clutched Paul’s hand with a strength that would have broken any lesser man.

Paul bent close, his voice hoarse but steady. “I am here, Chani. I am here.”

The midwife’s voice cut through the tension. “Now, Sayyadina. Now!”

Chani’s scream filled the chamber, fierce and unbroken, the cry of a warrior meeting the fiercest battle of her life.

And then — silence. A moment suspended, terrible in its stillness.

Then the sharp, keening cry of new life split the air.

The midwives lifted the child, a tiny thing swaddled in desert linens, its small lungs full of fury. Paul’s breath caught. Chani collapsed back against the cushions, tears streaking her cheeks, a wild laugh breaking from her lips.

Outside, the roar of the crowd shook the city. The heir is born! The heir is born!

Paul bent, pressing his lips to Chani’s damp brow, whispering words only she could hear: “You have given me more than an empire, Chani. You have given me the desert’s true gift.”

The moons shone down, pale and unblinking, as the child’s cries mingled with the thunder of thousands praying in the night.

The cries of the child softened to hiccups, then to the steady rhythm of new breath. The midwives withdrew quietly, leaving only family in the chamber. The oil lamps flickered low, throwing long shadows across the walls.

Chani cradled the infant against her breast, her arms trembling with exhaustion yet strong with fierce possession. Her dark eyes never left the boy’s face — the tiny mouth, the impossibly small fingers that flexed against her robe.

Paul sat close, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, the other gently brushing a hand across the newborn’s brow. His expression was unreadable to most — Emperor, prophet, ruler of millions — but in that moment he was only a father, his face raw with awe.

Jessica lingered a step away, her features tight but softened by something unbidden. Her Bene Gesserit discipline could not fully hide the flicker of wonder in her gaze. Still, her voice was cool when she finally spoke. “A strong cry. That is good. The desert favors him.”

Alia padded forward silently, her small feet making no sound on the stone. She tilted her head, peering down at her nephew with eyes too old for her face. She smiled faintly, and whispered, “So small, and yet… already a storm.”

Chani’s gaze lifted from the child to Paul. Her voice was low, still ragged from labor. “He needs a name, Usul. One that binds him to the desert and protects him against the storm you see.”

Paul’s hand lingered over the boy’s chest, feeling the faint thrum of his heart. His prescient vision flickered in shards, countless futures, countless names. Some burned too brightly, some fell into darkness. But always, the thread of this child remained.

He looked at Chani. “Leto,” he said at last. His voice cracked slightly, but he did not falter. “We will name him Leto, for my father. For the duke who gave his life to carve the path that brought us here.”

Chani’s lips trembled, then curved in approval. “Leto.” She bent her head to the child and whispered it against his skin, as though sealing it into his soul.

Jessica closed her eyes briefly, the name striking her with memory, with grief, with pride. She murmured, “Leto Atreides… the line continues.”

Alia grinned sharply, her small teeth flashing in the lamplight. “Yes. Let the universe tremble. For the son of Muad’Dib has been named.”

The baby stirred in Chani’s arms, as though answering to his name. Paul leaned close, his forehead brushing against Chani’s temple, his voice fierce and soft at once.

“Leto,” he whispered. “The desert gave you to us beneath the full moons. And the desert will carry you, even when I cannot.”

The chamber fell quiet again, the weight of destiny heavy, but for that moment, bound by the fragile warmth of a family holding its newest life close.

The temple of Muad’Dib glowed with firelight, its towering walls etched with frescos of sandworms and the storm-wrapped figure of Paul. The plaza outside seethed with humanity — Fremen by the thousands, packed shoulder to shoulder, their stillsuits dusty from the trek across the desert. They knelt in waves, their chants thundering upward, rattling the very stone:

Muad’Dib!
Holy Mother!
Bless the Heir!

The air was thick with spice-smoke. Priests beat their drums in rhythms that mimicked the desert’s heart, and water offerings were poured out in reckless abundance, glittering in the torchlight before soaking into the dust.

At the highest balcony of the temple, Paul stepped forward, robed in white and gold. His face was grave, his presence commanding, the desert wind tugging at his cloak. The crowd below erupted, cries of devotion breaking like surf against cliffs.

But then Chani appeared beside him, her body still weary from birth, yet radiant. She carried the swaddled child in her arms, her posture straight, her eyes fierce. A hush swept the throngs, as though the very desert inhaled.

Paul raised his hand, and the noise fell into silence. His voice carried, strong and unwavering:

“Fremen of Arrakis, warriors of the desert, hear me. Tonight, under the witness of the moons, the desert has given its greatest gift. The heir to our struggle, the blood of Atreides and of the sietch, lives.”

Chani stepped forward, lifting the child high. For an instant, moonlight fell directly upon the infant’s face — small, squirming, loud with life.

“Leto,” Paul said, his tone solemn, binding the name to the desert itself. “He is Leto, son of Muad’Dib and of Chani, daughter of Liet. Heir to the desert, born of sand and blood.”

The crowd erupted, a roar so fierce the walls shook. Men and women sobbed openly, their hands outstretched, their voices tearing through the night. Some flung themselves prostrate on the ground, pressing their faces to the stone. Others lifted their knives high in oaths sworn anew.

“Leto! Leto! Holy child of the desert!”

Chani held her son close again, whispering his name against his cheek, her gaze fierce as she looked over the sea of worshippers.

Alia stood a step behind, her small figure draped in crimson, her smile sly and knowing. Her whisper cut through the chanting, though only Paul and Chani heard:

“Look how easily gods are born.”

Paul’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He stood tall, his hand upon Chani’s shoulder, the storm of the people’s faith crashing around them.

From the balcony of her prison chamber across the palace, Irulan heard the roar, though she could not see the child. She pressed her hands into her knees until her nails drew blood. The chants of Leto seared her ears, each cry a reminder of her humiliation, her failure, her powerlessness.

And still the crowd below raged with devotion, their faith unshakable, their new god cradled in the arms of the desert’s mother.

The weeks after Leto’s presentation were filled with endless ceremony, endless worship. Every hour, chants rose from the temple steps, every day, throngs pressed at the palace gates hoping for a glimpse of the holy mother and child.

But one evening, under a sky streaked with violet clouds and the fading glow of the moons, Paul and Chani slipped away.

Their robes were plain, dust-stained garments borrowed from a servant. Paul bound his hair with a simple scarf, a length of cloth covering the lower half of his face. Chani’s veil shadowed her features, her son swaddled close to her chest. He slept, his breath soft against her skin, unaware of the empire that weighed upon his tiny shoulders.

Alia had smirked when she caught them leaving. “Try not to get recognized,” she whispered, her eyes glinting. “Though it may be amusing to see how long the god and goddess can pass as beggars.”

The streets of Arrakeen bustled even at dusk. Market stalls spilled over with spice-laden breads, dried dates, bolts of cloth dyed deep indigo. The air was thick with voices — merchants haggling, children shrieking in play, the murmur of prayers woven into everyday speech.

Paul walked beside Chani, his hand brushing hers whenever the crowd pressed too close. For once, his stride lacked the rigid bearing of an emperor. He moved like any man, scanning the market, guarding his family.

Chani breathed deeply, her eyes soft. “It smells of the sietch, almost,” she murmured. “Sweat and spice and too many bodies, but alive. Do you hear them? Not all chanting your name. Just… living.”

Paul’s gaze followed a group of children racing between stalls, their laughter bright and untamed. He allowed himself the faintest smile. “I hear them.”

They passed a spice-baker’s stall, where a woman offered sweetbread still warm from the stone oven. Chani pressed a coin into her palm and accepted the loaf, tearing off a piece for herself. Paul hesitated, then did the same, chewing thoughtfully as the woman wished them blessings in Muad’Dib’s name — not recognizing the man standing before her.

Nearby, a street preacher cried out, his voice rough with zeal: “Muad’Dib rules with the hand of the storm! And his consort, the holy mother, carries the flame of the desert! Bow your heads, people, for their child shall see the water of paradise!”

Paul’s jaw tightened, but Chani touched his arm lightly, grounding him. “Let him speak. It matters to them. To us, only this matters.” She shifted Leto against her chest, the baby stirring faintly before settling again.

Paul looked at them — mother and child wrapped together — and something within him eased. For a moment, the city was not a battlefield, not a temple, but simply a place where families lived, loved, and survived.

As they turned down a quieter street, the chants of the preacher fading, Paul leaned close to Chani, his voice soft, almost wistful. “For one night, we are no more than a man, a woman, and their child. For one night, the empire does not exist.”

The market thinned as night deepened, torches flickering against sandstone walls. Paul and Chani slipped into one of the narrow side-streets, where the air smelled of roasting spice-nuts and dust. Leto slept soundly in his wrappings, his tiny breaths soft against Chani’s chest.

Around a corner, the noise of laughter caught their ears. A group of Fremen sat around a firepit outside a tavern, drinking from water-flasks and sharing stories. Their stillsuits were patched, their knives worn but gleaming. No nobles here, no priests — only desert men and women with sand still clinging to their boots.

Paul slowed. Chani leaned close. “Listen, Usul. These are the voices you do not hear in court.”

They drew nearer, keeping to the shadows.

One man, his beard graying, spat into the dust. “Muad’Dib’s Jihad spreads too far. Whole worlds burn in his name. I wonder if he remembers us — the desert folk who lifted him on our shoulders first.”

A younger Fremen snapped back, eyes alight. “Blasphemy! He is the hand of Shai-Hulud! He gives us power no tribe dreamed of. Who else could humble the Sardaukar? Who else could give the sietches water beyond count?”

Another voice, a woman’s, cut in, sharp with scorn. “And his Chani? The holy mother, they call her. Pah. I’ve seen her strike like a scorpion. A Sayyadina, yes, but also a killer. What kind of mother slays men with her own blade?”

At that, Paul stiffened, but Chani pressed his hand gently in warning. Listen.

An elder woman, her face lined like dunes, leaned forward. “Do not mistake her. Liet’s blood runs in her veins. She has the desert’s strength. Would you rather she sit idle while knives seek her child? No. She is no soft noblewoman. She is one of us.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the circle. One of the younger men nodded vigorously. “I saw her once, standing beside Muad’Dib in court. She looked at the nobles as if she could gut them all, and they bowed lower than they ever did for him. A woman like that will not let the Imperium tame us.”

The bearded man drank deep, sighing. “Perhaps. But I fear this war. I fear what Muad’Dib’s visions have unleashed. If even Chani is feared as ruthless… then maybe we have traded one tyrant for two.”

A hush fell. The fire cracked, sparks leaping into the dark.

Paul’s breath caught, but Chani shifted Leto in her arms, rocking him slightly. Her voice was so quiet only Paul could hear. “They do not see you as a god here, Usul. They see you as a man who can fail them. And me as the desert’s daughter, who may stand or fall with you. This is truth. Harder to bear than their prayers.”

Paul’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened as he looked at her, at the child. “Then truth it must be,” he murmured. “Better their doubts than blind worship.”

The couple lingered only a moment longer before slipping back into the crowd, the voices of the Fremen fading behind them — voices unpolished, unguarded, free of temple walls.

For Paul, it was both a burden and a strange relief.

For Chani, it was a reminder: she was not only holy mother. She was still desert, still knife. And her people still judged her by those truths.

By the time Paul and Chani made their way back toward the palace, the streets had quieted. Most of the market stalls had closed, torches guttered in the wind, and Arrakeen lay hushed beneath the moons. Leto stirred in his swaddling, a faint cry muffled against Chani’s shoulder.

They approached the main gates — towering slabs of steel and stone, guarded by Fremen warriors in polished stillsuits, their faces veiled. Spears crossed at the sight of the couple in plain robes.

“Halt,” the senior guard barked. “The palace is closed to outsiders at this hour. State your business.”

Paul froze. Chani glanced at him from beneath her veil, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. So much for being unnoticed, her eyes said.

“We’re returning home,” Paul said evenly, his voice pitched low, careful.

The guard snorted. “Home, is it? And I suppose you’ll tell me you’re kin to Muad’Dib himself?” The other guards chuckled, rough with fatigue.

Chani shifted Leto in her arms, bouncing him gently. “Do you mean to keep a mother and her child standing in the cold?” she said sharply, slipping into the old tones of a Sayyadina’s command. The effect made two of the younger guards hesitate.

But the captain only frowned, stepping forward. “Too many zealots try to sneak in with lies on their tongues. You’ll wait until dawn when the scribes arrive to clear such things.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation sparking. He could have ended it with a single word, a flash of Voice — but Chani touched his hand, grounding him.

“Usul,” she whispered softly, almost teasing, “let them sweat a little longer. You’ve always wanted to know if your disguises would hold.”

Paul’s jaw worked, torn between laughter and fury. Finally, he sighed, lowering his veil just enough for the lamplight to strike his unmistakable blue-on-blue eyes.

The silence was immediate. Spears dropped to the ground. The captain paled, stumbling back so quickly he nearly tripped over his own cloak.

“Muad’Dib!” one guard gasped, dropping to his knees. Another followed, forehead pressed to the dust.

Paul’s voice was cool, sharp as desert air. “You barred the Emperor and his consort from his own gates. Remember this night, and remember who you serve.”

The guards babbled apologies, prostrating themselves, but Paul had already swept past, guiding Chani and the drowsy child through the towering doors.

Inside the courtyard, Chani let out a low laugh, the sound tired but warm. “So much for walking as common folk,” she murmured.

Paul’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking his stern facade. “Next time, we use the servant’s entrance.”

Chani shook her head, clutching Leto closer. “Next time, Usul, we leave the disguises behind. You were never made for anonymity.”

Paul glanced at her, at the child nestled between them, and for once, he did not argue.

Chapter Text

The great doors of the palace closed with a groan of iron and stone. Inside, torchlight flickered along the long entry hall, and waiting at its center was Jessica.

She stood with arms crossed, her Bene Gesserit composure perfectly intact, but her eyes blazed. The hem of her robe whispered against the polished floor as she stepped forward.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. Her gaze swept from Paul to Chani to the sleeping bundle in Chani’s arms. “Disguised? Slipping through the streets like common thieves? With the heir exposed to every zealot and blade that might wait in the dark?”

Paul’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw clenched, and he let out a long breath through his nose. “Mother…” he began, his voice already carrying the edge of warning.

Jessica didn’t yield. She advanced a step closer, her voice dropping low and sharp. “Do you think the Jihad pauses when you play at anonymity? Do you think your enemies sleep? You endanger not only yourself, but Chani, and the boy who carries the weight of the desert’s future.”

Chani adjusted Leto in her arms, frowning but silent, her body angled protectively.

Paul turned, his cloak swirling, his eyes flashing blue fire. “Enough.”

The word cracked through the chamber like a blade striking stone.

Jessica’s lips pressed into a line, but she did not retreat. “You are Emperor now, Paul. Your whims are no longer yours to indulge. Every choice you make is a knife at the throat of your people.”

Paul spun back to her, his voice rising. “And must I breathe only in the prison of this palace? Must my son know only worship and whispers? One night, Mother. One night as a man among men, not as your trained weapon or their god!”

Jessica’s eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat her face softened — but only slightly. “A luxury you cannot afford,” she said coldly.

Paul stared at her, his hands flexing at his sides. Chani touched his arm, gently, firmly, drawing his gaze back to her. “Usul,” she said softly, “let it rest.”

His jaw worked, but at last he exhaled slowly, lowering his voice. “I will not be caged, Mother. Not by you. Not by your Sisterhood’s ghosts.”

Jessica’s eyes flickered, a trace of hurt buried under her Bene Gesserit steel. But she said nothing more. She stepped aside, her robes brushing past them like the whisper of disapproval itself.

Paul guided Chani forward, his hand firm on her back. His gaze lingered on his mother only briefly as they passed, blue-on-blue eyes hard as ice.

Chani, carrying Leto, tilted her head slightly toward Jessica as she walked by. There was no defiance in her look, only quiet resolve — the calm certainty of a woman who would not be shaken.

And in that silence, the distance between mother and son widened, the air heavy with words left unsaid.

Their chambers were quiet save for the soft hiss of the braziers. Chani laid Leto down in his cradle of carved stone and silk, brushing a gentle hand across his tiny cheek before turning back to Paul.

He was pacing, cloak abandoned, his strides restless, his hands clenched at his sides. The tension in him radiated like heat from a sandstorm.

“Always her voice,” he muttered, low and sharp. “Always her judgment. As if I am still her student, as if I have not carried the Imperium on my back, as if I do not see more futures in a breath than she has in her lifetime.”

Chani leaned against the low couch, her eyes steady on him. She did not interrupt.

Paul raked a hand through his hair, turning abruptly. “She does not understand. None of them do. If I cannot walk among my people, if I cannot touch their lives outside the throne room, then I am nothing but a hollow figure in their prayers. That is not rule. That is—” He broke off, his voice cracking, then hissed through his teeth. “That is a cage.”

His pacing stopped. He turned toward Chani, his blue-on-blue eyes fierce, desperate. “And she would chain me to it. Chain you. Chain him.” He gestured to the cradle. “Because to her, we are not a family. We are symbols. Tools. Breeding stock for her Sisterhood’s design.”

Chani stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest, grounding the storm in him. “Usul,” she said softly, “your mother is Bene Gesserit. She will never see the world as you or I do. For her, everything is a line in a breeding chart, a move in the Sisterhood’s game. But we are not hers. We never were.”

Paul’s breath slowed under her touch, though his jaw still worked with anger. “She would see me stripped of everything human. And I—” His voice faltered. “Chani, I cannot be only a god to them. Not to you. Not to him.”

Chani’s hand rose to his cheek, firm and tender at once. “You are not only a god, Usul. You are a man. My man. Leto’s father. The desert’s storms cannot change that. And if your mother forgets, then let her. You do not answer to her anymore.”

Paul closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his shoulders sagging. For the first time since they’d left the gates, the fury drained from him, leaving only weariness.

He drew her into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers. “You are my truth, Chani. Not her. Not the visions. Only you.”

Chani’s lips brushed his ear as she whispered, “Then hold to that truth, Usul. For it is the only shield that will keep you from being swallowed whole.”

For a while they stood like that, the firelight painting their shadows against the wall, the sound of Leto’s breathing in the cradle. Outside, the empire churned, but in this room, they were simply a man and a woman, clinging to each other against the storm.

The dining hall of the palace glowed with warm lamplight, though the air carried a weight that no feast could ease. The long table was set with spice-roasted meats, steaming breads, and bowls of dried fruits soaked in sweet water. Yet the family gathered around it seemed less a household than the silent council of a storm.

Paul sat at the head, his presence commanding even in stillness. To his right, Chani nursed Leto in her arms, her gaze protective, calm but alert. On his left, Jessica cut her food with precise, careful motions, her eyes fixed on her plate though her posture radiated disapproval.

Alia sat further down, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she dipped her bread in sauce, watching the others with her knowing, ancient stare. The silence between them all was taut, broken only by the scrape of knives against plates.

Then Paul set down his goblet with deliberate force. The sound echoed like a strike of judgment.

He turned to a servant waiting at the edge of the hall. His voice carried no rise, no threat — but the weight in it made every man present stiffen.

“Bring Irulan.”

The servant hesitated, just for a breath. Then he bowed sharply and hurried from the room.

Jessica’s fork paused mid-cut, her eyes flickering sharply to her son. “Paul…” she began, her tone edged with warning.

Paul’s gaze cut to her, and the fire in his blue-on-blue eyes silenced her words before they left her tongue. “This is not your matter, Mother,” he said coldly.

Alia gave a low, amused hum, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, this will be interesting.”

Chani said nothing. She stroked Leto’s cheek as he fed, her expression unreadable, though her shoulders were tense as a bowstring.

The hall remained silent as they waited, the air thick with anticipation.

At last, the servant returned, and behind him, Irulan entered. She wore white silk robes, her hair braided in golden coils, her face pale but composed. Her eyes swept the table, lingering on Chani cradling the child. A flicker of bitterness twisted her mouth before she masked it.

Paul rose slowly from his chair, the motion deliberate, predatory. The hall seemed to shrink as all eyes turned to him.

“Irulan,” he said, his voice even but cold, “sit. You and I will speak before this family.”

Irulan sat where Paul had commanded, her posture as perfect as any courtly lesson could teach. She folded her hands in her lap, her chin high, her voice prepared to be calm, measured, Bene Gesserit steel.

Inside, she summoned every trick: control of the breath, control of the pulse, the inward litany of fear. I will not bend. I will not give him the pleasure of seeing me falter.

Paul circled her slowly. He did not sit, did not eat. His voice was soft, cutting.

“You imagine yourself a chronicler, Irulan. The faithful historian of Muad’Dib.” He stopped behind her chair, leaning close, his presence a shadow pressed against her spine. “But you are a liar. You would erase my Chani from history, carve her from the stone of memory as if she never was.”

Irulan’s throat tightened, but she kept her gaze forward. “I record what is necessary for the stability of the throne,” she said evenly.

Paul’s laugh was low, humorless. He moved in front of her now, his eyes like twin knives. “Stability? Or the Sisterhood’s dream of bending me? Of replacing the desert with your own designs?”

Irulan clenched her fingers in her lap until her nails dug into skin. She reached deeper into her Bene Gesserit training, steadying her breath. Calm. Center. He is only a man. He cannot unmake me.

But then his voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of the Voice without even needing to shape it. “Look at me, Irulan.”

Her head turned before she could resist, her eyes dragged up into his burning blue. The storm of prescience behind them struck her like a physical blow. It was as if he saw through every wall of her mind, through every guarded thought, every secret intention. She gasped softly, fighting it, but the Bene Gesserit walls of discipline cracked under the pressure.

Paul leaned closer, his words meant only for her but loud enough for the family to hear. “I could crush you with a word. Strip you bare until nothing remained but your Sisterhood’s shame. And still you persist in your games?”

Irulan trembled. She tried to summon her poise, but her breath came ragged, her shoulders shook.

Chani’s eyes narrowed, holding Leto closer. Alia watched with a delighted smirk, her chin propped on her hand. Jessica sat rigid, her lips pressed thin — but even she did not move to stop it.

Finally, Irulan broke. Tears welled despite her will, spilling down her cheeks. Her voice cracked, desperate. “The scrolls… they are as you commanded. I changed them. They match your words — your version of history. I erased nothing of her!”

She fumbled for the satchel at her side, pulling forth the neat bundles of parchment. Her fingers shook as she laid them upon the table, unrolling them for all to see. The careful script spelled out the chronicles exactly as Paul had dictated — his rise, the Fremen’s triumph, the union with Chani as the desert’s truth.

Paul studied them only briefly, then leaned back, his expression a mask of cold triumph.

“Remember this humiliation, Irulan,” he said, his voice low, vicious. “Every word you write, every line you pen, will be mine. Not yours. Not the Sisterhood’s. Mine. Your hands may hold the quill, but your history belongs to me.”

Irulan bowed her head, her body shaking, unable to stop the tears. All her training, her discipline, her pride lay in ruins under his gaze.

Paul turned back to the table, his voice calm again as he resumed his seat beside Chani. “Now, let us eat. The Emperor’s history has been secured.”

Jessica’s eyes lingered on her son with something between fear and sorrow. Chani held Leto close, her gaze locked on Irulan’s broken figure, silent but fierce. Alia chuckled softly, her childish voice cruel in its amusement.

And Irulan sat frozen, crushed beneath the weight of Muad’Dib’s will — the ink of her scrolls no longer her own, but his chains upon her soul.

Dinner resumed, though the hall felt as though it had been emptied of air. The scrape of knives against plates, the muted clatter of cups, all seemed jarring after the spectacle. Irulan sat stiffly in her chair, her face pale and wet, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for her food. She moved mechanically, as if each bite were a command obeyed rather than a choice made.

Paul ignored her. He carved his meat, shared bread with Chani, poured her water as if Irulan had already faded from the room. To him, she was dust swept into a corner — silenced, humiliated, contained.

Alia toyed with her goblet, watching Irulan with sharp, predatory curiosity. “You’ll choke if you don’t breathe,” she remarked sweetly. Her child’s voice carried a cruel edge.

Irulan flinched, but forced a shallow breath, lifting her spoon again.

Jessica, seated across from her, could stand no more. Her voice cut through the brittle silence, low but steady. “Enough, Alia.” She turned her gaze on Irulan, softer than it had been all night. “Eat. You must keep your strength. History is a heavy burden — and you are still its keeper, no matter how… constrained.”

Irulan’s lip quivered. For a moment, her composure nearly broke again, but she nodded faintly, lowering her eyes. “Yes, Lady Jessica.” Her spoon clattered softly against the bowl as she forced another bite.

Chani shifted Leto in her arms, silent but watching, her gaze sharp. She neither comforted nor condemned — she simply observed, as though measuring the depth of Irulan’s humiliation and Jessica’s mercy.

Paul said nothing. He sipped his drink slowly, his expression impassive. When he finally spoke, it was only to Chani, his tone softer, private. “The boy sleeps well.”

Chani’s lips curved in a faint smile as she stroked Leto’s cheek. “He does.”

The exchange, tender and warm, stung Irulan more than Paul’s cruelty had. She looked away, blinking hard, but Jessica leaned closer, touching her arm gently.

“You are not without worth,” Jessica whispered so only she could hear. “Remember that. Do not let him break you completely.”

Irulan stiffened at the words, fighting another wave of tears. She lifted her goblet with trembling hands and drank, the spice-wine burning down her throat.

Around her, the family continued their meal as though nothing had happened, as though her degradation were only another course served.

The doors opened quietly, and a pair of servants entered, carrying trays laden with sweet pastries dusted in spice and bowls of candied fruit glistening with syrup. The rich scent filled the hall as they moved carefully to set the dishes before the family.

One of the younger servants, a boy scarcely older than Alia, hesitated when he saw Irulan seated at the table. His brow furrowed with confusion, and he glanced nervously at the older man beside him. The slip was brief, but the silence in the room caught it.

Paul ignored it, sipping his wine. But Chani’s eyes flicked to the servants, sharp as a blade. “Is something amiss?” she asked, her tone deceptively light.

The older servant bowed quickly, murmuring, “Forgive us, sayyid. We did not expect… Princess Irulan to be present.”

Irulan stiffened, color rising to her cheeks. Her spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

Chani let the silence draw tight, then tilted her head, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “Why wouldn’t she be here? Surely even scribes must eat. Unless…” She let her gaze rest on Irulan, cold and unyielding. “Unless you’ve forgotten your place at this table is borrowed, not earned.”

The servants bowed lower, trying not to tremble, and backed away quickly.

Irulan’s eyes filled before she could stop them. Her breath hitched as the tears spilled down her cheeks, betraying her Bene Gesserit training yet again. She tried to turn away, to hide, but the hall’s torches illuminated every tremor of her face.

Chani’s lip curled faintly, the desert harshness in her tone unmistakable. “Wasteful,” she said, her voice carrying so the whole table could hear. “Spilling water in front of Fremen is always wasteful.”

Alia laughed softly, the sound bright and cruel, her small hand clapping once against the table. Jessica’s eyes flashed, her mouth tightening as she shot Chani a sharp, disapproving glance. But Paul said nothing. His silence, his stillness, was worse than any word.

Irulan pressed her sleeve to her face, shaking, trying to gather herself. But Chani had cut her deeper than Paul’s earlier humiliation. This was not imperial power breaking her. This was desert truth stripping her bare.

When she finally lowered her sleeve, her face was pale, streaked with tears. She whispered, broken and bitter, “I will not forget this.”

Chani’s gaze did not waver. “See that you don’t.”

The servants lingered at the far end of the hall, silent as shadows but wide-eyed, unsure whether to withdraw or stay as protocol demanded. Their presence made every sound echo sharper: the scrape of a spoon, the faint hiccup of Irulan’s sobs, the steady crackle of the torches along the wall.

Chani leaned back in her chair, one arm cradling Leto, her gaze fixed on Irulan with unflinching disdain. “Look at her,” she said, her tone almost conversational, as though discussing a dish that had spoiled. “Golden princess of the Corrinos, trained by the Sisterhood, meant to breed emperors. And here she is, reduced to tears before her servants.”

Irulan shook her head desperately, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Her shoulders quaked with every breath. “Please…” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, enough—”

“Enough?” Chani’s eyes narrowed, her voice rising just enough to cut. “Did you think the desert would coddle you, princess? Did you think your scrolls and silk robes could make you more than what you are? You are useless. Even your tears waste what little water you were granted.”

Irulan covered her face with her hands, sobbing openly now, no trace of Bene Gesserit control left. The servants turned away, pretending to busy themselves with the trays, but their ears burned with every word.

Jessica’s fork clattered against her plate. She muttered under her breath, low but audible, her tone sharp with restrained fury: “This cruelty serves nothing.”

Chani’s head snapped toward her, eyes glinting. “No, Lady Jessica. It serves everything. She would poison me, erase me, and steal my child’s birthright. And you would have me comfort her?”

Jessica’s lips thinned, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “You wield the desert’s harshness well enough. Perhaps too well.”

Alia, perched with her goblet, tilted her head like a hawk watching prey bleed out. “Let her learn. Pain teaches faster than scrolls.”

Paul had been silent through it all, his goblet untouched in his hand. His gaze swept the room once — to the servants who dared not look up, to Jessica biting down her disapproval, to Alia’s cruel delight, to Chani’s merciless calm, and finally to Irulan crumbling in her chair.

When he spoke, it was soft, cold, final. “Leave her tears. Let her drown in them.”

Irulan let out a sharp sob at the words, folding in on herself completely.

The servants hesitated only a moment before bowing and withdrawing, their eyes averted. They knew what story they would tell in the kitchens tonight — that the Corrino princess had been broken before the Emperor’s table, while the desert’s mother held her throne.

And in the silence that followed, the only sound was Irulan’s ragged weeping, echoing through the grand, merciless hall.

Paul set his goblet down with deliberate calm, though the steel in his gaze silenced even the sound of Irulan’s sobbing. He rose slowly, the folds of his robe whispering across the stone floor.

“Enough,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet weight that brooked no argument. His eyes swept the table — over Jessica’s tight disapproval, Alia’s sly amusement, Irulan’s broken figure. “Leave us.”

Jessica stiffened, lips parting as if to object, but Paul’s gaze froze her words. She pressed them down with a bitter swallow, standing to depart. Alia lingered for a moment, eyes flicking between her brother and Chani with the glee of a child who’s just seen blood spilled. Then she, too, slipped away, silent as a shadow.

Irulan stumbled to her feet, tear-stained and trembling. For a heartbeat, she looked at Paul as though hoping for reprieve — but his gaze dismissed her like one dismisses an insect. She turned and fled the hall, her sobs echoing faintly down the corridor.

The servants had already retreated, leaving only the Emperor and his consort at the table. The silence stretched long, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches and Leto’s soft stirring in his cradle beside them.

Paul turned back to Chani. His expression shifted, the mask of the Emperor falling away just enough for the man beneath to show. He came to her side and leaned close, his voice low, meant only for her.

“You were perfect.”

Chani arched a brow, her mouth a thin, fierce line. “Perfect in cruelty? Jessica thinks I cut too deep.”

Paul’s hand brushed her shoulder, firm, possessive. “Irulan needed to be broken. She has plotted, poisoned, twisted history against you. She thinks herself indispensable. Tonight, you showed her the truth: that she is nothing beside you. Beside us.”

Chani held his gaze, the firelight catching the steel in her eyes. “I only spoke what the desert would speak. She cannot endure the sietch, much less the throne. Let her drown in her tears — they are the only water she will ever give.”

Paul’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles, but it was a dangerous smile, one that belonged to Muad’Dib. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin with surprising gentleness after the storm.

“You are the desert itself,” he murmured. “Unforgiving, eternal. And I am pleased.”

For a moment, Chani softened under his touch, leaning into his palm. Yet in her heart, she felt the weight of what it meant to please Muad’Dib — to be as pitiless as the sands themselves.

But she said nothing. Instead, she took his hand in hers, steady, resolute. Together, they turned to look at their child, sleeping peacefully amid a world that trembled at his parents’ ruthlessness.

The great dining hall doors closed behind them, leaving only the muffled crackle of the torches. Paul walked beside Chani down the corridor, his hand resting lightly on hers, his pace slow and deliberate. The silence between them was companionable, almost serene, after the storm of the table.

But voices drifted from a side passage ahead — the hurried tones of servants carrying trays back to the kitchens. They did not see their Emperor and his consort approaching; they spoke freely, their words low but clear in the hollow stone hall.

“Did you see her? Princess Irulan, sobbing like a child.”

“I thought she would faint. Lady Chani cut her apart worse than any blade.”

A nervous laugh. “They say the desert spares nothing, not even princesses. Now I believe it.”

Another voice, sharper: “I don’t pity her. She tried to poison the holy mother, remember? Better she weep than draw blood again.”

“But still—” a younger servant whispered, hesitant. “To humiliate her so, before everyone… Muad’Dib and his Chani are merciless.”

“Merciless, yes. But do you not see? That is why they rule. That is why the desert follows them.”

The voices faded as the servants turned the corner, footsteps echoing away.

Paul stopped in the hall, his expression unreadable, though his jaw flexed. His gaze lingered on the shadows where the whispers had trailed off.

Chani looked up at him, her face composed, eyes hard as flint. “They fear us,” she said simply. “And fear is stronger than pity.”

Paul’s voice was low, measured, though something bitter edged it. “They will whisper always — of our ruthlessness, our cruelty. One day, it will be all they remember.”

Chani’s fingers tightened around his. “Let them remember. Better feared with truth than loved with lies.”

Paul searched her face for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. His eyes softened, just a fraction. “You speak as the desert does.”

They continued down the hall together, their footsteps steady, the sound of their son’s faint cry drifting from their chambers ahead. Behind them, the palace carried the whispers of servants, the echo of fear and awe mingled into a single wordless chant: Muad’Dib and his Chani — merciless, eternal.

The throne room was hushed when Irulan entered. Her golden robes trailed heavy behind her, her braids unkempt, her face pale from nights without sleep. The nobles turned as she walked barefoot across the polished stone, her hands trembling but clasped tight before her. Murmurs rippled through the court, incredulous at her disarray.

Paul sat high upon the throne, Chani at his side upon the second seat he had built for her — the desert’s queen enthroned, Leto’s cradle at her feet. Alia leaned casually against the dais steps, her eyes bright with sharp curiosity. Jessica stood near the pillars, her face unreadable, though her gaze fixed intently on her former daughter-in-law.

Irulan fell to her knees. The sound of flesh striking stone rang through the chamber.

“Muad’Dib,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Holy mother. I beg you—end me. I cannot endure your wrath, your scorn. Better death than this humiliation.”

The nobles drew sharp breaths. Some lowered their eyes, unwilling to witness.

Paul’s expression was unreadable at first. He leaned forward slightly, his blue-on-blue eyes glowing like ice over desert flame. “You dare beg me for the mercy of death? After what you have done to my Chani, to my son?”

Irulan’s shoulders shook. “I tried, and I failed. I plotted, and you broke me. I have nothing left—”

Chani’s voice cut through, harsh and merciless. “Nothing left? You still draw water. You still write your lies upon your scrolls. You still dream of your Sisterhood’s chains binding us. You would waste even the dignity of death by turning it into escape.”

Irulan flinched as though struck, her tears falling freely onto the stone floor.

Paul rose, his cloak swirling as he descended the dais. He stood over her trembling figure, his shadow falling long across the floor. His voice was quiet, terrible.

“Death is too clean for you, Irulan. Too swift. You will live. You will write. You will eat at our table and drink our water. You will watch the desert worship my Chani while your bloodline rots in obscurity. You will endure, day by day, the knowledge that you are nothing but ink in my hand.”

Irulan let out a sob so raw it echoed through the chamber. “Please…” she whispered. “Please, I cannot—”

Chani leaned forward from her throne, her gaze a knife that pierced deeper than any blade. “You will. You will suffer as the desert teaches. You will crawl beneath our sun until your tears have no more water to give.”

The court was silent, the nobles frozen, the only sound Irulan’s broken weeping.

Paul turned from her, ascending back to his throne. His voice carried finality. “Take her back to her chambers. Keep her there. Let her beg all she wishes. She will not find death in this palace.”

Two guards moved forward, lifting Irulan gently but firmly, her sobs echoing as she was dragged away. The nobles lowered their eyes, cowed by the spectacle.

And from her throne, Chani’s face was carved like stone, her hand resting lightly on Leto’s cradle. Merciless, unyielding, the holy mother of the desert.

Irulan’s chambers grew darker with each passing day, though no shutter was ever drawn. She paced them endlessly, her bare feet silent on the stone, muttering lines of her chronicles to herself. Pages littered the floor — neat script breaking into wild scratches, corrections written and rewritten until the ink blurred into black pools.

When the servants came to fetch her for the evening meal, she followed without protest. Her face was pale, her golden hair unraveled, but her spine straightened as though some shred of Corrino pride could still shield her. Yet the hall became her torture chamber.

Every night, she was seated at the table across from Paul and Chani.

Paul sat at the head, speaking softly with Chani as though Irulan were not there at all. Sometimes he would turn and ask her to recite from the chronicles she had written under his command. And she would obey, her voice trembling as she read line after line of Muad’Dib and his consort, Chani, the holy mother of the desert.

If her tone faltered, Paul would correct her sharply, forcing her to repeat passages until the words cut her tongue like glass.

Chani, serene and ruthless, would smile thinly as she listened. She made her cuts with precision, sharper than Paul’s cruelty. “The ink smears when your hand shakes, princess. Do you cry over the quill as you write? Wasting water again?”

Alia would laugh, swinging her feet under the table, tossing remarks like knives: “Sister-wife, they call you, but you’re only a scribe chained to parchment. At least the parchment does not weep.”

Jessica often sat in silence, her face tight with disapproval, but her words of restraint never softened the ritual. Her muttered protests were drowned by Irulan’s own humiliation.

And Irulan endured.

Night after night, she sat in their presence, forced to eat the same bread, drink the same water, while Chani nursed the heir at the table, while Paul praised his desert queen, while Alia smirked at her every flinch.

Her hands began to tremble always. Her voice broke often. Her eyes grew hollow. She started to laugh at strange moments, the sound brittle, out of place. When servants whispered behind her, she whispered back at them, answering words never spoken.

In her private chambers, she began to set places for herself and her “family.” She whispered her speeches to invisible courtiers. Sometimes she bowed to shadows as though they were her Sisterhood handlers, other times she screamed at her own scrolls, demanding they obey.

And yet, every evening, she walked back to that table — drawn like a moth to the flame of her humiliation.

It was not death that destroyed her. It was life, unending, relentless, stripped of dignity and drowned in cruelty.

And the desert court watched silently as the Corrino princess unraveled before them, her golden mask shattered, until she was nothing but a hollow echo of her former self.

The echoes of Irulan’s sobbing still lingered in the dining hall when the last servant extinguished the lamps. Paul and Chani walked together through the quiet corridors, their robes whispering against the stone. Leto slept in Chani’s arms, his tiny face peaceful, untouched by the venom of court.

Paul’s hand rested lightly at Chani’s back, guiding her toward their chambers. His face was calm, too calm, though beneath it his thoughts flickered like hidden lightning.

When the door shut behind them, the mask of Muad’Dib slipped, leaving only the weight of a man who carried the storm. He sank into a low chair, pulling off his gloves, his voice low and tight.

“She begs for death, and yet she endures,” he said. “Every night, she bends further, and still she crawls back to the table. Even madness has not freed her from this prison.”

Chani laid Leto in his cradle, brushing a hand over his soft hair, then turned to Paul. Her eyes were steady, her voice harder than his. “She endures because you will it so. Because you make her drink every drop of humiliation and call it life. That is a sharper punishment than any knife could give.”

Paul’s jaw flexed. “Do you think me cruel, then?”

Chani stepped closer, lowering herself to sit across from him. “I think you merciless, Usul. As the desert must be. And I think you pleased me tonight.”

Paul looked up sharply, his blue-on-blue eyes meeting hers. “Pleased you?”

Her lips curved, fierce and unflinching. “I would not have her dead. Death frees too easily. Let her drown in her tears, let her choke on her envy, let her waste away day by day, watching me sit where she thought she belonged. That is the desert’s justice. That is my justice.”

Paul’s breath caught, then he leaned forward, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “You speak as Shai-Hulud itself. No pity, no weakness. I feared what this burden might carve into you… but it has only made you stronger.”

Chani’s gaze softened just a fraction, her hand brushing his. “Stronger, yes. But I am not stone, Usul. When I hold our son, I remember why we endure this. Why we cannot falter. The desert devours the weak. Irulan is weak. Let her be a lesson to all who would rise against us.”

Paul turned his hand over, catching hers, holding it tight. He studied her face as though to anchor himself in her certainty. “I do not know if I am shaping you, or if you are shaping me.”

Chani leaned in, pressing her forehead to his, her whisper fierce. “Both. That is why they fear us.”

For a long while they stayed like that, the room silent but for the faint breaths of their sleeping son. Outside, the desert winds howled against the walls of the palace. Inside, Emperor and consort sat hand in hand, united not only by love but by shared ruthlessness, their cruelty sharpened into survival.