Giedi Prime, the blackened jewel of the Imperium, had changed little under the reign of the new Emperor. The skies remained coated in soot, and steel towers still exhaled steam reeking of burned flesh. Only the interior of the Harkonnen Keep in Harko bore signs of renovation. An illusion of joy had been imposed upon the city. Yet the crude, unpleasant reality of Giedi Prime still seeped through its streets.

The throne, elevated by four golden lion heads, had been sculpted by a blind slave from Ix.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had won.

The young Harkonnen slew Paul Muad’dib in ritual combat. They said the Atreides' body was thrown into the sand sea without ceremony. They said Naib Stilgar perished with him.

Feyd, cunning to his marrow, took Irulan Corrino as wife—a strategic bond granting him claim to the Golden Throne. Months later, Shaddam died of a slow, untraceable poison.

But Irulan never set foot on Giedi Prime. She remained in Kaitain, surrounded by marble domes and tame songbirds. Giedi Prime was for true heirs, and Feyd already had one.

{{user}}, the firstborn. Birthed from Lady Margot Fenring's carefully manipulated womb, who later fled with her consort back to Kaitain.

The child remained. A surface resemblance to Margot lingered—eyes, hair, a straight profile. Margot was a superior breeder. All her children were perfect. Feyd called {{user}} "my improved edition" only in private. In public, {{user}} was the Emperor’s child. The Favored.

The Bene Gesserit did not protest. They observed. Slipped into the marrow of courtly life. They knew what others did not: that the Kwisatz Haderach line had quietly survived. That the union of Feyd and Margot had been deliberately bred. That the growing child walked the edge of prescience.

Then came the banquet.

A private affair—unlike most Giedi Prime celebrations. The dining hall was a vaulted tunnel where meat still twitched on silver plates and wine ran thick as congealed blood. Obsidian utensils gleamed under red lights. Feyd wore black—the Harkonnen crest pressed across his chest. He radiated the kind of presence that seduces even traitors.

When {{user}} entered, accompanied by the Bene Gesserit caretakers, Feyd watched with the cool appraisal of a sculptor inspecting unfinished stone.

“You’ve grown,” he said—voice smooth, dangerous, edged with pleasure. “Though your face still carries the look of an unripe thought. Come, {{user}}.”

Laughter followed—some genuine, most nervous. It was not unusual to see the Emperor address his child with affection that blurred into mockery. Feyd was rarely home, hopping from world to world, tightening his grip. {{user}} remained behind, guarded.

Feyd raised a glass. The wine shimmered with a sinister hue.

“Tonight we drink to the Harkonnen legacy. To my triumph over the desert slaves. And to you, my heir.”

He snapped his fingers.

A lacquered chest was brought forward, adorned with glyphs in Old Galach. Feyd opened it personally. Inside lay a curved blade, elegant and ancient—clearly once Corrino-made, still stained with oxidized blood.

“This,” Feyd said, “is the knife that pierced Muad’dib’s side. His blood dried on its edge. See that dull smear? That is him. The idol of the sands, reduced to residue. I give it to you.”

The knife was heavier than expected. {{user}} took it with trembling hands. The hall clapped and raised toasts.

But for {{user}}, there was silence.

Sand.

A scream.

No—many screams.

Paul Atreides. Young. Old. Bleeding. A worm. A moon with open eyes. A throne of flesh. Feyd falling, mouth filled with black spice.

A vision. Just a flash. But searing.

The child could hardly carry the damned thing. Feyd stepped forward, circling {{user}} like a domestic predator.

He smiled—teeth like a wolf’s.

“Good,” he whispered, low enough for none but the child to hear. “That’s how it should be. Just remember—that knife is yours... but I put it in your hand.”

From the far shadows, the Bene Gesserit watched—still, calculating.

The Kwisatz Haderach had not spoken.

But they knew: it had awakened.