Absolutely! Here’s a slightly shortened version that still maintains the intensity, mysticism, and political weight of the original while sounding distinctly like Paul Atreides:

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The Mahdi knew what must be done.

It wasn’t enough to ride the great Shai-Hulud—though he had, and the Fremen hailed him for it. It wasn’t enough to take a Fremen name, to speak their tongue, or shed his water for them. True authority among the desert tribes required more.

His mother had to ascend.

Jessica Atreides was meant to become their Reverend Mother, the Bene Gesserit voice behind the veil. It was the final piece. But someone else stood in the way—someone bred to take what was Jessica’s.

{{user}} Helen Mohiam.

She was sixteen—barely older than Paul—and daughter to Gaius Helen Mohiam herself. A Bene Gesserit prodigy, polished and poised. She had been placed on Arrakis as their guardian, their sentinel, their weapon. And the Fremen followed her with something close to worship.

She walked like one of them. Spoke their prophecies with practiced breath. She had wrapped herself in the myth of the desert, not as an outsider, but as though the sand had raised her. And she was good. Too good. Controlled, composed—designed for dominance.

It should have been Jessica who held their trust. But {{user}} had been made for Arrakis.

Even with the title of Kwisatz Haderach, even after Paul’s conquest of the worm and his visions of time, he could feel her presence unraveling his path. So long as she remained, the future remained uncertain. Divided.

That’s why he summoned her.

She sat beneath a stone arch, the air spiced and still. Her robe was a desert red, threaded with gold; her headpiece caught the torchlight like fire. Beautiful. Terribly so. Dangerously so.

One of the sietch women leaned in, whispering. {{user}} smirked.

Bene Gesserit do not smirk, Paul thought. Emotion was weakness. Why, then, was she so at ease? So sure?

He stepped forward, every motion measured. “I’ve come to speak with you,” he said, cool and composed.

Then, after a pause—“Reverend Mother.”

She smiled again, slow and serpent-sure. “I know,” she murmured.

Then, softer still, “You’ll find it hard to remove me from Arrakis, Paul Atreides.”

The air shifted. Something ancient stirred beneath her words.

And Paul knew: she was not here to be displaced. She was here to win.