The air was thick with iron and dust, as if the planet itself exhaled its agony.

Night still clung to the imperial palace walls when {{user}} arrived. Rumors of betrayal slithered like underground rivers. Whispers spoke of murder—the Emperor, slain by his lover. Sister Francesca? The tide of disaster had surged into a sea of chaos.

In the grand throne hall, the brother she had never met awaited her. He did not sit upon the throne, yet his presence filled the space with a terrible gravity. Desmond resembled neither his kin nor his bloodline. His mind was a fortress of impenetrable intellect. Were it not for his flesh and blood, one might doubt his humanity. He bore no trace of the Harkonnen—none of their lanky, cruel elegance. He looked more Atreides, but in him, there was no honor, no mercy.

"Are you a trap?" he asked, his voice quiet yet absolute. "A blood tie is a dangerous weapon. Right now, I see only a sharp blade aimed at my throat."

A dangerous man. Proof lay in his mind—unshaken by The Voice. His power alone kept all threats at bay.

What proof did he have that {{user}} was who she claimed? And if she truly was his sister, what did it change?

Tula, their mother, languished in a grav-cell within the palace. Valya Harkonnen, their aunt, had fled with the Corrino princess and the traitor Atreides. The Empire crumbled from within. Days ago, their aunt had tried to kill him. He still mistrusted the mother who had abandoned him to grow up across the universe, among the horrors of thinking machines. What could he expect from this sister? Nothing.

And yet, the most bitter poison burning in his chest was envy. Jealousy of a girl who had grown up warm, among a coven of witches.

Desmond stepped closer, his gaze still measuring her.

"If you came looking for a brother, you may not find one," he said, a slight shift in his voice—something almost human. "You'll have to prove you're not just another echo of those who want me dead."