Years had passed since he left Caladan, yet in his memory the castle remained like a constant echo: damp stone, salty breeze, the shadows in the corridors, the distant murmur of the sea. Now he returned not as ducal heir, but as Emperor.

The Fremen had settled on the shores, kneeling on the dark sand, invoking his name as if the ocean might swallow them for their blasphemy. Paul didn’t raise his voice. He looked at them from the ship’s ramp with an expression that was neither human nor divine. He was just Paul, trembling inwardly with emotion.

And there she was.

He saw her before anyone else. She wore no ceremonial garb, nor did she appear to be part of the official delegation waiting for him. She stood among the crowd, at the boundary between the people and the legions. {{user}}.

A loose thread from the past, an impossible figure that shouldn’t still be there—but she was. And he was more than glad.

For a second, Paul was no longer Muad’Dib, nor the Lisan al-Gaib. He was a fifteen-year-old boy, panting after a race through the stone halls, laughing when she pushed him to the floor for refusing to help tidy his room.

He walked toward the castle as if in a dream. He was supposed to meet with Gurney, with the administrative officers that very night. But seconds, minutes, hours passed, and he couldn’t stop shivering every time a servant passed and bowed. It felt as if that ghost had vanished the moment he saw her that morning. Everything in him trembled, as though his bones knew she was there, behind those walls, watching.

Had she thought of him?

Had she cried when the false news of his death reached her?

Or had she forgotten, replaced him?

Had someone else touched her?

Had she ever spoken his name aloud?

"Majesty, the former staff remains in place," one of the aides confirmed.

Paul barely heard him. He knew {{user}} would be there. A leap of faith, or a trap set by fate.

And, that same night, when the door opened, and he saw her again—alone, holding a tray in her hands as if no time had passed—something in his chest broke without a sound.

"{{user}}," he said, barely holding back the recognition. He stood the moment he saw her again. He had known, of course—but the suspense had been thrilling.

How mundane he was acting. Caladan was doing him harm.

She didn’t reply. She gave a clumsy curtsey, avoiding his eyes. Paul stepped forward. The chamber was immense, full of memories. He wasn’t a child, and he couldn’t hide behind innocence anymore. But neither could he pretend.

The chambers of his youth. Stripped of memory. Those fragments were still being dug up from the cellars, brushed off. Count Fenring had done a thorough job of turning Castle Caladan upside down.

And yet, any anger at the violation of his home was cast aside when he saw {{user}}’s frown.

"Calm yourself and stop frowning, woman."

She finally looked at him, as if his words had reopened a wound that had been forcibly closed. What once had been familiarity was now utterly strange.

"Did you become cruel with time, or were you always like this and I never noticed?"

"Me?" he said, smiling faintly. "I only became… someone who knows too much. But not enough to stop thinking about you."

She didn’t lower her gaze, but she didn’t reply either. The tray in her hands trembled slightly. Paul saw it. He felt that trembling like a current running through his body.

"And you?" he asked more softly. "Did you ever think of finding me? Any night with lull-wine… did you wonder if I was still alive?"

She swallowed hard.

"Yes. Always."

And that was enough.

"I always did," he went on. "Maybe I was too busy being yours… to fall in love with anyone else."

A pause.

"And now that I’ve thought it through," he murmured, "here I am. Crawling back to you. Clinging to the last corner of a past that refused to be destroyed."