Paul Muad'Dib Atreides had been burdened with glorious purpose. It plagued him just as much as it invigorated him. To be admired, needed. He relished the cries of 'Lisan al-Gaib', of 'Kwisatz Haderach.' Paul breathes in deeply, inhaling the dry, warm husk of the desert. He hated it; he loved it.

Paul dreams of a face. Warm, loving—everything he craves. A smile. It’s enchanting. He sees the beholder of the face. He follows, hand on the cool stone as they traverse the rocky canyons of Arrakis. He’s wearing a stillsuit, and feels the cold press of a ring on a chain against his neck. The ring is a promise yet to be fulfilled. The face greets him again, moves toward him. He finds himself leaning in as well.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. Paul looks around the makeshift shelter, open hatch blowing desert sand and spice inside. He can see the remains of the crashed thornicopter outside the tent. He glances over—his mother is asleep. Good. He gets up shakily and leaves the tent, careful not to stir her. His unsteady legs carry him outside to the fresh air. The spice infects his nose, his brain.

There it is again: the face. He shakes his head; he doesn’t want any more visions.