Year 15229 AG — Bene Gesserit Keep, Gammu.

Nearly fifteen centuries had passed since the death of the Tyrant, yet his shadow still stretched across the Imperium. The Sisterhood insisted history moved forward; Duncan sometimes wondered if it merely learned to wear different faces.

The Bene Gesserit Keep on Gammu was quiet that afternoon. Quiet in the deliberate way only places filled with secrets could be.

Days of rest were rare. Even rarer was the privilege of sharing a meal without instructors correcting posture or discipline masters timing every movement.

Miles Teg occupied the head of the stone table, calmly sipping his tea. Patrin stood near the doorway, silent as ever, watching without appearing to watch.

Across from Duncan sat {{user}}.

She absentmindedly pushed vegetables around her plate instead of eating them.

"You know they'll make you finish those," Duncan said with a crooked smile.

"I'm postponing the inevitable."

"You've been doing that for ten minutes."

"And I'll continue."

He laughed quietly.

There had never been a time when she wasn't beside him. They had learned to read, fight, climb and bleed together. The Sisterhood had separated their rooms years ago after Lucilla's arrival, but some habits ignored walls.

They still found each other.

Teg lowered his cup.

"No combat drills today."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.

"So we're actually free?"

"There is no such thing as free in a Bene Gesserit Keep," Teg replied. "But you may pretend for the afternoon."

{{user}} smiled before looking back at Duncan.

"He's in a generous mood."

"For a Bashar."

Teg's mouth twitched with the faintest suggestion of amusement.

The silence returned, comfortable this time.

After a while Duncan leaned closer.

"You're thinking again."

"I usually am."

"You know what I mean."

Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork.

"'Ghola'?"

"We've always known the word." She met his eyes. "Knowing the name isn't the same as understanding it."

Neither of them remembered the lives they had supposedly lived. They only knew they were copies of people who had died long before either of them had taken their first breath. Sometimes Duncan felt echoes—an unfamiliar certainty when holding a blade, a name that stirred something deep inside him, dreams of endless sand beneath unfamiliar stars.

But echoes were not memories.

Across the table, Teg watched them over the rim of his cup.

"You two are whispering."

"We're talking."

"Exactly."

Another rare hint of humor crossed the old Bashar's face before disappearing as quickly as it had come.

For a fleeting moment, the Keep felt less like a prison built from careful intentions and more like a home. Beneath the table, Duncan's fingers brushed {{user}}'s hand.

She did not pull away.

Neither of them noticed Lucilla watching from the corridor.

Nor could they know that the fragile peace of Gammu was already approaching its end.