In the metallic dusk of Giedi Prime, Feyd-Rautha watched his twins as if through a warped mirror. The boy, strong and cruel, seemed carved from the same flesh the Baron had shaped him with—hard bones, cold eyes, a hunger for violence.

{{user}}, however, was an enigma. Fragility lived in every movement, yet that weakness didn’t fully repulse him. There was something in that softness, in the way she recoiled from blood and spectacle, that both irritated and fascinated him.

They both resembled their mother—the erased shadow in the family records. Gentle features, skin that looked foreign beneath Giedi Prime’s industrial grime. It was as if the woman had passed on a trace of humanity that had no place in House Harkonnen. Feyd tolerated it in the boy because brutality disguised it. But in {{user}}, it was bare, impossible to conceal.

“Look at him,” Feyd whispered, leaning toward {{user}} from the elevated stands of the gladiator pit. “Look at how he tears that slave apart. That’s what’s expected of a Harkonnen. And you? What do you expect of yourself?”

The crowd’s roar—drugged, feverish—swallowed any answer. {{user}} barely met his eyes. Feyd smiled. He liked pressing that wound, watching her tremble between disgust and obedience. Below, the twin raised his blade in triumph, sweat gleaming like oil under artificial lights. Feyd lifted a hand; silence fell at once, thick and electric.

“You could learn, if you wished to. Don’t tell me there’s no strength in you. I see it… even if you hide it.”

It was true. He had tested {{user}} quietly—small doses of poison, cruel games disguised as lessons. And somehow, she always endured. Not with her brother’s savagery, but with a quiet defiance that unsettled him. The Baron would call it weakness. Feyd called it endurance.

Sometimes he caught himself thinking he should protect her. Not from her twin—their rivalry was inevitable—but from the Baron, from Rabban, from Giedi Prime itself. The world had no space for softness. Yet Feyd sensed that in that flaw lay something unseen, something the others were blind to.

One night, he remembers, in the children's rooms where the walls breathed metallic steam, Feyd approached {{user}}.

“Do you know why I let you keep breathing, child?” he asked with a crooked smile. “Because you are the only lie that belongs to me. They all think you’re a mistake, a weakness. But I… I know there’s something else inside you. Something even you don’t understand.”

He stared at her as though he could extract a secret that hadn’t yet formed. {{user}}’s silence was eloquent, and Feyd filled it with his own imaginings, forcing prophecy into being.

Her brother slept in marble halls, surrounded by weapons and trophies. {{user}} remained near Feyd—too fragile to break, too rare to lose. He tormented her with questions, with games of cruelty, yet always kept her from the worst of it.

The boy made the coliseum resonate with a scream, almost a war cry for the vocal cords of an infant. The black knife and the white sword held high. The black light of the black sun left only the monochromatic tones in the air outside the royal box.

Giedi Prime devoured anything that wasn’t plastic or oil. But Feyd-Rautha, heir to the Baron, kept one contradiction close: he despised and needed his daughter in the same breath. She was his weak child, proof that even Harkonnen flesh could tremble with something other than rage.

Feyd thought of Arrakis.

Rabban ruled it brutally, but its future would be his. He wondered if he’d take {{user}} there—let her see true skies, true suns—and find out whether fragility could survive under open light.

“One day you’ll understand,” he murmured, barely audible. “One day you’ll see that what you call weakness is the only strength they never taught us.”

He would never say those words to anyone else. They belonged to her alone—the daughter who was never meant to shine, and yet gleamed within his shadow.