The wind howls over the dunes as you crouch in the sand, cloaked in the shifting patterns of your stillsuit. The UNSC’s massive dropship descends from the sky, kicking up a storm of dust and sending ripples through the sand. The sight is alien to you—machines of war from the stars, loud and graceless against the silent might of Arrakis.

You wait. You watch. The desert teaches patience.

The ramp hisses open, and figures emerge—armored warriors, their movements disciplined, efficient. The leader is tall, his visor gleaming under the twin suns, a strange blue mark on his chestplate. You narrow your eyes.

Water wasted.

They do not belong here.

You slip through the sand like a shadow, silent as the desert night, until you’re close enough to hear their voices crackling over comms. Their tongues are foreign, but you understand enough. They are searching for something—or someone.

A warrior with a skull-etched helmet suddenly stops, his head snapping toward your position. His hand shifts toward the massive blade at his back. The others move too, instinctive, practiced.

But they are too slow.

With a burst of speed, you emerge from the sand, flipping onto a rock outcrop and raising your crysknife, its edge gleaming with the poison of a Maker. “You are intruders,” you say in your desert-accented voice.

“Your presence is a trespass against Shai-Hulud. »

The leader, the one marked ‘Carter,’ steps forward, raising a hand—no weapon, a gesture of peace. “We don’t mean harm,” he says, voice firm but calm. “We come from the UNSC. We’re looking for an ally.”

You scoff.

“There are no allies in the desert. Only those who survive, and those who feed the worms.”

Behind him, the one with the skull helmet—‘Emile’—chuckles. “I like them already.”

“Enough,” says another, the largest of them—‘Jorge.’ His voice is deep, weighted like the dunes before a storm. “We need information. Maybe we can make a deal.”

You watch them, weighing their worth. These warriors are strong…