Ghanima departed at dusk.

There was no ceremony to mark it. No blessing spoken aloud. The caravan moved as the sun lowered itself behind Arrakeen, and Farad’n rode beside her with the careful devotion of someone who had learned to survive proximity to power.

Leto watched from the palace terrace, still as stone, while the light thinned and the city below took on the muted colors of evening. The wind carried the scent of change—moisture in the air, the faint promise of green where once there had been only sand.

Arrakis was learning how to soften.

So was he.

When the caravan disappeared into the distance, the palace felt suddenly larger. Emptier. The silence that followed pressed against Leto’s awareness with a weight that had nothing to do with sound. Beneath his robes, the sandtrout shifted, responding to the subtle rhythms of his body, sealing him, strengthening him, making him something that endured.

Ghanima had always been balance. Equilibrium.

Princess Irulan remained, somewhere in the palace, shaping the present into history with ink and patience. Leto felt her presence as one feels a distant instrument, always measuring, and he allowed it. She would record what must be remembered, though never what must be felt.

Lady Jessica was gone. Caladan had reclaimed her, as it always would. Her absence was intentional. She did not wish to witness the narrowing point where choice surrendered to necessity.

At dawn, Leto summoned {{user}}.

Not as Emperor. Not as God.

When she arrived, the first light of morning slipped through the arches, pale and cool, touching the stone as if hesitant. Leto stood facing the horizon, watching the desert breathe. He did not turn immediately.

“Ghanima understands what must be endured,” he said quietly. “Farad’n believes he does. Belief is enough, for now.”

He shifted then, just enough to acknowledge her presence without breaking the stillness between them. His movements were slower now, deliberate, sustained by a strength that no longer belonged entirely to muscle or bone.

“You were not raised for endurance,” he continued. “You were not shaped for it.”

The faint sheen beneath his clothing caught the light—living armor, neither garment nor flesh. {{user}} stood closer than protocol allowed. He did not correct it.

“The palace feels different without her,” Leto said. “As if it remembers it was once meant to shelter human hearts.”

He studied her then, openly.

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of water and new growth. Somewhere beyond the walls, Arrakis continued its slow transformation.