The Council Chamber was bathed in the crimson light of sunset. The air, thick with incense from the sanctuaries, hummed with the lingering echoes of prayers. At the balcony entrance, Korba raised his hands in blessing for the pilgrims. Stilgar, brow furrowed, watched with thinly veiled irritation. The pomp and devotion surrounding Muad’Dib felt suffocating.

Paul Atreides sat at the head of the council table, his gaze lingering on the faces around him. Across from him, Alia met his eyes with a knowing smile that unsettled him.

The Court Qizara stepped away from the balcony, closing the doors behind him before taking his seat to Paul's left.

“The presence of the spirit has been invoked,” Korba declared.

“Thanks be to the Lord,” Alia responded, offering a mock reverence.

Paul sighed and turned to Stilgar, who tapped his documents impatiently.

“My lord, urgent matters await.”

The discussion turned to the Tupile treaty. The Spacing Guild demanded its signing without disclosing the pact’s exact location. {{user}}, one of the few in the room without a hidden agenda, listened intently. Irulan questioned the Guild’s pressure, while Chani warned of the consequences of denying melange.

After a moment of reflection on his "powers"—as Stilgar called them—Paul made his decision.

“We’ll sign.”

Stilgar nodded but had more to say.

“My lord, the Bene Gesserit have sent another request. They wish to discuss imperial succession.”

Chani was immediately wary. Irulan, however, held Paul's gaze. He shook his head before she could renew her argument for founding the dynasty.

“I already said no.”

Irulan took a deep breath, her fury barely restrained as her husband regarded her with thinly veiled pity. Alia, watching with quiet amusement, had known from the start this meeting would end poorly.

The Emperor's gaze finally fell upon {{user}}, the only face in the room that was neither a threat, a scheme, nor an expectation.

“You're too quiet,” he said, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Say something.”