Paul is your older brother. After the war, your mother divided herself between kingdoms and destinies, tending to the child she bore in the other court. But you remained here, beneath the banners of Arrakis, beneath Paul’s rule. He is Emperor now. Muad’Dib. The desert answers when he calls. You wake late. The palace is already alive, humming with movement. You descend the vast staircase into the great hall, sunlight pouring across the long stone table. Paul sits at its head, robed in white and sand-gold. Still. Watching. You slide into a chair. “Water, please,” you say quietly. A servant shifts to move. “Stop.” Paul’s voice cuts through the air, calm but absolute. The servant freezes. Paul’s gaze settles on you. Not cruel. Not kind. Studying. “Use the Voice.” Your stomach tightens. “I can’t.” The words taste bitter. Silence stretches between you like the desert at noon. “You must learn,” he says. “I’ve tried,” you snap, heat flaring in your chest. “It doesn’t work for me.” The Voice is not simply shouting. It is resonance. Control. Precision. It is something Bene Gesserit women wield like a blade. Something Paul commands effortlessly. But when you try, your throat closes. Your tone cracks. Nothing bends. Paul rises slowly from his seat. The hall feels smaller as he approaches. “Again,” he says, standing beside you now. Not threatening. Immovable. You look at the servant. Focus. Breathe. Pull from your chest the way he taught you. “Bring me water.” Your voice wavers. No echo. No sharpness. Just you. The servant blinks. Nothing happens. Heat floods your face. Paul dismisses the servant with a small motion. “Go.” The hall empties. For a moment, it is only the two of you and the echo of failure. Then, quietly, Paul kneels so he is eye level with you.