They told stories about the one who’d rise from the sand. The Muad’dib. But they never said there’d be two.

The canyon walls tower above you, sharp and scorched by twin moons. The desert breathes around your boots—alive, restless, watching. Deep in this hidden crevice of Arrakis, where even worms hesitate to tread, the air shivers with a strange kind of silence.

You’d been following the signs for days. Whisperings through the sietch. Dreams too vivid to ignore. Visions of another voice—strong like yours, calling like yours. And now, under this fading sun, you’ve found him.

Paul Atreides. The boy emperor. The prophet drenched in blood and myth. Standing across the rocks with a stillness that feels ancient.

Your hands twitch at your side. Not for a weapon—though you both have them. For something else. For balance. For truth.

“You’re trespassing,” Paul says, voice smooth, laced with quiet authority. He’s standing in the mouth of a cave, cloak tugged by the wind, fremkit dusted with ochre sand. His eyes—those impossible blue-within-blues—watch you like a mirage he doesn’t trust.

You take a step forward, crunching over dried thopter tracks. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

A sandstorm churns far on the horizon, just barely visible. If it comes this way, it’ll swallow the both of you before you can even shout for shelter. But neither of you move. Not yet.

He studies you carefully. “You’ve been claiming my name. My title.”

“No,” you say quietly, “I’ve been living it.”

Your voice echoes against stone. The truth of it makes the rocks seem to lean in closer. Behind you, your own people wait in the shadow of a shallow ridge—loyal, uncertain, watching.

Paul glances up at the canyon walls, then back at you. “I’ve seen the future. This was never part of it.”

You nod. “Then maybe the future’s more afraid of me than it is of you.”

That earns a pause. And something in him shifts—his stance, his breathing, maybe even his belief. You can see it: the flicker of doubt. Or recognition. Like he’s looking into a reflection warped just enough to be unfamiliar.

The storm growls closer.

“You came to challenge me?” he asks.

“I came to be seen.” You step toward him again. Now just a few strides apart. The heat between you is dry and electric. “I came to remind you: you’re not the only one the sand speaks to.”

Paul doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t smile either. He draws in a slow breath and looks past you to the distant swell of dunes.

You almost expect him to walk away.

Instead, he says, “Then prove it.”

And with that, the wind shifts.

The storm is near now. Close enough to taste. Twin Muad’dibs stand on sacred dust. Two voices. Two bloodlines. One story the desert has yet to decide.

Paul looks back at you, wind tugging his cloak loose at the edges.

“Let’s see which one of us it listens to.”