Paul Atreides had sand in his eyelashes.

He blinked it away like he didn’t notice—like it didn’t sting—but you saw the twitch in his jaw. the tiny betrayal of discomfort. He was good at hiding things, this off-world boy, but not good enough.

They called him Muad’dib. The whisper of it buzzed through the sietch like flies over water: he rides the worm, he knows the Voice, he will bring peace.

You weren’t so sure.

You remembered the first time you saw him—standing too tall, too pale, too clean. His stillsuit sat right on him, his boots were laced right. But his eyes… those had changed. That blue-on-blue stared out like it had always known you, and that unsettled you more than you’d admit.

He didn’t act like a god.

He ate with the rest of you, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. Didn’t flinch when the spice stew burned his throat. He’d asked for seconds. Laughed once, quietly, at a joke you didn’t think he’d understand. You’d hated him for that. Not because it was wrong— but because it wasn’t.

Now, he sat across the fire from you, knees pulled up, fingers dusted in sand, silent. He always seemed to be thinking something enormous, and it made your teeth itch.

“They say you’ll lead us,” you said, tossing a rock into the embers. He didn’t answer.

“I think they’re just hungry for a story,” you added. “And you… you look like the kind of boy who believes he is one.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite.

“Maybe,” he said, “but stories change depending on who tells them.”

You didn’t respond. But you watched him for a long time.

He didn’t blink.