The game required no effort. Not a second passed between moves: first Leto’s wrist shifted with a piece, and Ghanima, without even looking at him, already had hers between her fingers, advancing with equal precision. Neither was truly focused; the board was only a reminder of possibilities they had long exhausted. Thousands of variations, every outcome foreseen. The only pleasure lay in evasion, in the silent mockery of knowing the other too well.

The third in that circle did not play, but watched. {{user}} leaned forward, eyes fixed on the shifting pieces. For Leto and Ghanima, her presence was almost tangible. The tension they felt around their grandmother Jessica dissolved when {{user}} was near. She carried no prenatal curse, no prescience—more real, more human. An anchor.

Desert sunlight cut through the rectangular windows, tracing yellow lines across the floor. The hall was an unlikely hybrid: Fremen austerity mixed with Imperial ornament. The triplets had carved out a fragile peace there—Leto and Ghani facing each other across the board, {{user}} at their side, close enough to see every tremor of hand before a move.

Peace ended when Alia entered.

Not her voice, but her presence—the probing eyes searching for cracks to poison. She knelt before Leto, taking his hand with false tenderness.

“We must work together.”

Leto did not stop the game; his free hand moved a bishop. His tone was calm, edged with irony.

“Must we?”

“Or we will be vulnerable.” Her gaze flicked to Ghanima, who kept her eyes on the board.

“Vulnerable to what?” Leto asked at last.

“Oh, don’t be evasive.” Alia’s smile strained.

Ghanima laughed softly.

“If you want to see how evasive he is, play against him.”

The pieces kept moving, unbroken rhythm. Irritated, Alia’s glance fell on {{user}}. The false warmth of her lips vanished. {{user}} was what she could not control: Atreides blood unburdened by prescience.

With a sudden gesture, Alia swept half the pieces from the board. The clatter rang through the chamber.

“This is not a game.”

At last, Leto and Ghani looked up. Both glanced at {{user}}, as if grounding themselves in her presence.

“There are powers against us,” Alia pressed on. “Rebel Fremen hate how we reshape their world. The damned Guild despises our spice monopoly.”

“They have no choice but to accept it,” Leto said, calmly restoring the board.

“And now she is here.” No name needed. Lady Jessica—scorned mother, looming shadow. “I want to know what she seeks.”

“No. What you want is for us to drown in spice,” Ghanima cut sharply, laughter gone.

Leto’s hand froze above a rook.

“You cannot ignore your heritage,” Alia pressed. “Your father was the greatest man in history. He gave you extraordinary gifts, and you refuse to use them. The power of both of you.”

The distinction from {{user}} was plain. It was a humiliation that the only seed of Muad 'dib who did not inherit a fraction of omniscience could even blossom with visions during the dream world. What Alia saw as lack, Leto valued as strength. Her disdain for {{user}} stirred his anger.

“You want us to see what you cannot.”

“I need you to help me see.” Desperation cracked her voice. “To see the future.”

“Other lives haunt our consciousness,” Ghani said gravely. “Shared lives. That is the curse of the omniscient.”

“That is the true danger,” Leto added. “Not the rebels, nor the Guild, nor our grandmother. You know this better than anyone.”

Silence stretched. Alia straightened, rigid.

“One day you will face the horror of your own existence. One day, you will beg for help. And that day, you will be… alone.”

She departed with heavy drama, footsteps echoing long after.

Ghanima frowned, whispering, “What if she’s right?”

Leto barely reacted. With a swift motion, he placed his queen into position. His lips curved as he looked at his sisters. “Checkmate.”

The board, the light, the desert beyond—all remained. But the game, like their lives, was far from finished.