The halls of the Imperial Keep were too quiet at night—carved from stone and shadow, where whispers of the old empire echoed through the bones of the building. You were Empress in name, nothing more. A crown, a title, and a life scripted for the benefit of a war-hardened court and the Fremen masses who still refused to truly accept you.

Paul Atreides—Muad’Dib, Lisan al-Gaib, Emperor—was your husband. And yet, you knew him only in pieces. Slivers of a man that surfaced in public, in meetings, in ceremonial functions where you sat beside him in silence, hands never touching.

He loved another. Everyone knew it. Chani, fierce and proud, walked beside him not in gold or jewels, but in desert-born grace. She had his heart. You only had his crown.

Your marriage to him had been forged in the aftermath of war—a political alliance demanded by the remnants of the Corrino bloodline and the needs of the Empire. A symbol of unity. A necessary lie.

But it still hurt. Quietly, privately, it burned in places you couldn’t name.

On most nights, Paul never came to your chambers. He didn’t need to. There was no pretense of intimacy between you. You spent your evenings reading, writing, wandering the vast windows of your room in silence. Always dressed in the finery expected of an Empress, even if no one saw you.

But tonight was different.

You had just extinguished the last candle when you heard the door open—softly, almost hesitant. You didn’t turn. You knew the sound of his steps. The way he moved like a shadow stretching across the stone floor.

For a long moment, he said nothing. You waited, breath caught between bitterness and expectation.

Then, finally, his voice—quiet, almost too human for someone worshipped as a god.

“Do you hate me?”