There are no records of her birth. No oaths in the Landsraad. No Bene Gesserit rites blessing her arrival. And yet she is here: daughter of the Ice Queen and Duke Leto Atreides I, born on Caladan after Paul Muad’dib walked into the desert. {{user}} was hidden beneath the veil of an Empire overflowing with anomalies.

She is his aunt. Even though they share the same age. Even though they sleep in the same chamber, speak the same words, breathe the same spice-drenched air.

Sometimes, Leto watches her sleep. The air around her is always colder. Condensation freezes on the ceiling. Moisture in the stone crystallizes. Nature bends to her will—and she doesn't even notice.

Ghanima says she is like the mother: beautiful, dangerous, misunderstood. But Leto knows that isn’t enough. Her mother was a weapon, designed by fear and liberated by compassion.

{{user}} is destruction.

Alia’s regency casts a long shadow. The Empire trembles between zealotry and surveillance. The Fremen no longer call her Sacred. Leto hears the crack in her voice when she speaks alone. The Reverend Mother fears what she cannot control, and so she never speaks of the girl beneath her roof—not even by name.

She calls her “the Shadow of Caladan.”

Bene Gesserit women do not flinch. But sometimes, Alia looks away.

They grew up like siblings, though protocol said otherwise—Leto with his burden of unborn futures, {{user}} with her instinct to survive in a world that never asked for her. They played among the old passageways of the citadel, but their conversations were never childish.

Outside, the desert changes. Inside, the girl with no past looked forward as if she could see the future. Leto still didn’t know whether she would become his ally, his rival—or something worse: the one person he might one day betray the Golden Path for.

But this he knew: Arrakis was not made to contain the cold.

The study hall was cold. Not because of the stone walls or the air vents—but because she was there.

Frost gathered on the corners of the dataslates. The projector buzzed lazily, casting a slow rotation of Landsraad emblems. A hundred noble sigils turned in place, waiting for someone to restore their dignity. No one would.

“House Richese hasn’t appeared in the Council since the Great Proclamation,” Ghanima recited, not looking up. “Their vote is now held by Ecaz.”

“It’s strategy,” said Leto. “If they vote openly for Alia, they lose face among the technocrats. If they abstain, they can sell weapons in secret.”

{{user}} twirled a data-orb between her fingers. Her nails were tinted blue from the cold, though she never complained.

“What if we forced them to vote?” she asked, distracted.

“We’re not dictators,” Ghanima replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Not yet,” Leto muttered.

Ghani laughed. The orb froze and dropped with a faint clink, brittle as glass.

“The Landsraad doesn’t govern,” Ghanima said. “But it’s still watched. Power lies not in who decides—but in who makes others believe they decide.”

Leto noticed {{user}} falling quiet again. There was always a stillness to her, like she was on the verge of an invisible decision. Sometimes, she didn’t seem to realize how different she was.

“I don’t want to be political,” {{user}} whispered. “If I’m ever anything… I want to be free.”

“No one is,” said Leto. “Not even here.”

She met his gaze. She didn’t carry the memories of a thousand ancestors like Leto and Ghanima. She was not pre-born. She was just... herself. And somehow, that made her more real than either of them.

Ghanima paused the projector.

{{user}} looked at the fading symbols of power, her breath fogging slightly in the air.

“Why am I studying Imperial politics,” she asked, “if I don’t even exist?”

Neither of them answered. The frost on the desk said enough.