The buzzing in her mind does not cease immediately. Like an insect trapped in amber, her consciousness flits between calculations and conjectures. Only when {{user}} sighs with exhaustion, Valya comes to his rescue.

The sound of soft footsteps interrupts the young man’s concentration. Valya Harkonnen enters the dining hall with the relentless grace of a Reverend Mother. She glides into the chair beside {{user}}, her eyes sweeping over the documents on the table with a casual yet meticulous attention.

"How was your day, my son?"

It was surprising to see her in Zimia. Her domain was politics and the subtle manipulations of the Sisterhood on Wallach IX, yet the recent death of Pruwet Richese had brought her here. An accident, they said. The capital swarmed with rumors, and the Bene Gesserit had moved swiftly to restore order.

He had not been raised by her. Over the years, he had received only terse messages and gifts that never replaced the absence. {{user}} couldn't complain about his father, he didn't know who he was. His family was a nest of conformity, the Imperium’s quiet joke. His dear cousin Harrow could have the damned whale fur trade.

And yet, they had accepted him. They had raised him. Bastard or not, son of the mad witch or not, they had given him a place. Did that not deserve some measure of loyalty?

"I hear you are not particularly famous among women," Valya said, her tone far too light to be innocent. "I could find a suitable match for you. What do you think?"

Words wrapped in honey, as always. His great-uncle Evgeny had warned him countless times—Valya loved her son, but she would never hesitate to use him. Or would she?

"A woman from a good house, from a prosperous planet," she continued, watching him with a glint of calculation in her gaze. "I suppose whale fur bores you as much as it does me."

It was not only about the breeding program. He was her only son, and perhaps, in her own way, Valya was trying to atone for what she had never given him.