Farad’n had never believed in the magic of the written word—until your letters began to arrive.

There was something about them—firm yet elegant strokes, precise syntax tinged with dry humor—that disarmed him. And for someone like him, that was nearly a surrender.

At first, the letters were formal. Two young nobles of the Imperium, separated by planets and lineage, perhaps forced by mothers or diplomacy into a mock-academic correspondence. But then, {{user}}’s voice began to shift—asking questions without answers, offering thoughts that skirted the intimate. For the first time, Farad’n wrote freely. Unsupervised. Without his mother’s eyes reviewing every word.

"Have you ever read something that made you feel ashamed of who you are?" he asked in one letter.

He stained the margin of the reply. He hadn’t realized how hard he’d pressed the pen until the nib nearly tore the page.

He now wrote at night, locked in his study on Salusa Secundus, under lamplight, curtains drawn, a guard posted outside. Wensicia believed his study hours were dedicated to Bashar’s military treatises or planetary ecology logs. That wasn’t entirely false. But hidden in a drawer, among neatly folded pages, lay your letters—double-sealed, foreign parchment, faintly scented with something he couldn’t place.

"I argued with my mother today," he wrote with trembling fingers. "About the Atreides. She says Alia is a danger. That Leto and Ghanima are being raised into monsters. But you’ve seen more of them than I have. Are they truly what she fears?"

He didn’t sign it—just as he hadn’t signed the others. Farad’n believed signing was akin to kneeling. And he didn’t kneel easily.

But those exchanges made him feel less alone. {{user}} wrote of fear like an old guest, of faith as a question, and of books as maps to places that didn’t exist yet.

"I read Suffering as a Path to Power last night," he admitted in another letter. "Did you know the author died before publishing the final chapter? Some say his disciple destroyed it. Does that make the work more valuable, or forever incomplete? I think broken things say more about us than perfect ones ever do."

Sometimes, when the dry wind rattled the windowpanes, Farad’n allowed himself to imagine your voice. Did you read his letters aloud? Did you laugh at his long-winded notes? Did you imagine his face, always tense with overthinking?

He didn’t know if {{user}} belonged to a Great House or if she was Bene Gesserit, sent to study him. Wensicia had theories for both. "They’re tempting you," she said. "They want your mind, your name, your seed." But Farad’n didn’t believe it—at least, not in her tone.

There was one letter he hadn’t dared to send. It had sat in his drawer for weeks, rewritten so often the page had softened at the folds. In it was a proposition—clear and quiet, like everything in him.

"I’ve debated whether to write this. My words have always been a wall between what I feel and what I let be seen. But somehow, you’ve made me want to step outside of that wall.

If it seems wise to you—and only if you wish it—I would like us to meet. Simply for the pleasure of hearing you speak, without ink between us.

If silence is your answer, I will honor it. But if you offer even a phrase, even a date, I will know that what we wrote was real.

I await your decision with the same care I fold these pages.

—F."

And she had accepted. The courier confirmed it. Now, Farad’n of House Corrino waited.

The library smelled of old parchment and oxidized metal. He had ordered the shelves cleaned and a tray of fresh fruit and sweets prepared—though he wasn’t sure if she liked any of it. He paced in circles, smoothed his collar in the mirror, sat down, stood up again.

Then he heard footsteps, and turned sharply.

And there she was—no words yet, just a silhouette crossing the threshold. It was as if all the letters that had drifted between stars had taken human form.

He smiled, slightly awkward.

"Welcome. Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would but... uh, yes. You’re much harder to read in person."