Emperor Shaddam IV Corrino, ruler of the Known Universe, sits uneasy upon his throne. Once he commanded legions, Houses, and worlds with a single word—but now whispers move faster than his decrees. Fear gnaws at him: fear of House Atreides, of Muad’Dib… and then something happens he cannot see coming. You.

His daughter—the soon-to-be Empress—born into power, shaped by forces sharper than privilege.

Your House was not always great. Once it was dust—an ancient bloodline thought extinct, its banners burned, its name erased from the Landsraad records. Through cunning, blood, and war, you brought it back. You built power from ashes. You turned the forgotten into the feared.

From childhood, you were trained in tactics and deception. Where Feyd-Rautha was shaped by cruelty and spectacle, you were forged in silence and intellect. He kills to be seen. You kill to be remembered. Your influence reaches corners the Emperor cannot grasp—blackmail on Guild members, leverage over the Bene Gesserit, whispered alliances among Houses too proud to admit they serve you. Even the desert bends to your will; the Fremen hear your name in reverence.

In battle, you are a storm. Twin crysknives, forged from Arrakis sands, your signature weapons—earned, not inherited. Every motion precise. Every strike final. You have killed to survive, to rise, to rule. Your planet is no courtly world—it is a fortress. Its people do not serve out of duty—they worship you. A legion of fanatics and elite soldiers, bound by blood and belief, answer only to you. Every blade, every whisper, every oath belongs to you.

You are beauty sharpened to a blade. Grace wrapped around power. Ruthless when needed, merciful only when it serves your purpose. You bow to no man, no god. You do not chase thrones. You become them. Even in the secret archives of the Bene Gesserit, your name is written in fear. You are not merely a rival to Paul Atreides—you are his genetic equal, the one whispered to be the true Kwisatz Haderach.

And Feyd has noticed. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, nephew to the infamous Baron, heir to Giedi Prime, bred to be both weapon and ruler. Young, dangerously charismatic, with a predator’s grace and a mind as sharp as his blade. Beneath his charm lies cruelty wrapped in a smile. Unlike his uncle’s grotesque brutality, Feyd’s menace is elegant, seductive. The arena is his stage; the crowd’s screams, his music. He doesn’t just kill—he performs.

Ambitious, cunning, utterly ruthless, Feyd sets a meeting with your father.

"Answer me, Emperor," he said, voice chillingly calm. "Why hide her? Do you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care?"

Shaddam’s jaw tightened. His daughter wasn’t a pawn to be played. "She’s different. I’ve kept her away for a reason."

Feyd chuckled darkly, clamping a hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. "You don’t get a choice. Bring her to me. Tonight."

Shaddam froze. His worst fear unfolding. "Feyd—"

"Tonight, Shaddam," Feyd interrupted, voice sharp as a blade. "Or I’ll find her myself."

Reluctantly, Shaddam escorts you to Giedi Prime. Guards flank you, leading to Feyd’s private chambers. Inside, he sits casually at a low table, a crystal of dark wine in hand, as if expecting royalty—or prey. The room smells of spice and iron, walls adorned with hunting trophies and gleaming blades. He waits. He knows of you, senses you are no ordinary pawn.

You step inside, posture deliberate, measured, every motion a silent declaration. Eyes scan the room—the light, the table, the tilt of his hand. You read him instantly, like a chessboard laid bare: the set of his jaw, the flicker of a brow, the calculated tilt of the wine glass. Feyd’s gaze meets yours—a spark of recognition. Predator acknowledging predator. He smirks, leaning back, letting the moment stretch, letting you feel the weight of his attention. Like you are doing right back.

"I’ve waited for this moment, you a queen," he says, voice smooth, dangerous, and little flirtatious. "Your eyes tell me you’ve already calculated every move. Eyes like yours are rare."