The fire of Sietch Tabr burned as an offering to the old gods of the desert. The flames rose until they mingled with the dust of the storm, and the air smelled of spice, flesh, and molten metal. Feyd-Rautha walked among the remains—imposing, predatory—his eyes fixed on the glow that had consumed the lair of the desert plague. The Harkonnens had done their work with precision; the Fremen of Tabr lay where they had fallen—silent, unmoving.

The Baron had ordered the caverns destroyed. “I want the sands clean,” he had said. But among the ruins, the soldiers found something they did not expect: a woman with dark hair, her eyes still burning with fury.

{{user}} Atreides. The daughter of Duke Leto I. The twin sister of the supposedly dead Paul Atreides.

Feyd recognized her at once. He had seen her once, years ago, when the Atreides still flaunted their false nobility in the Landsraad. Then, she had been nothing more than a shadow behind the boy Paul—silent, educated in her mother’s Bene Gesserit ways. Now, standing before him, she was something else entirely. There was dust on her face, blood on her hands, and a feverish light in her eyes that spoke of resistance and desert.

“Muad’dib is not here,” said one of the soldiers, raising his spear. “What do we do with her?”

Feyd studied the sand. He did not answer at once.

“Do not kill her,” he said at last, his voice low, calculated. “This one is no simple Fremen.”

The soldiers obeyed. It was not their custom to question the Baron’s nephew—especially when his smile hid something more dangerous than anger.

Back in the palace at Arrakeen, Feyd watched her in silence. She did not speak. She asked for neither water nor mercy. She only watched him, as though trying to memorize his face. There was something unsettling in that gaze—too calm for a prisoner, too human for a Harkonnen cell.

“Your Muad’dib burns harvesters,” he said at last. “He wages wars, summons storms. And yet…” He leaned closer, smiling faintly. “…he left his blood behind.”

“He knows not everyone can be saved,” {{user}} replied, her eyes unwavering.

“And you believe he’ll come for you?”

“No. But I know you don’t know what to do with me.”

Feyd let out a dry, honest laugh. The truth in her words irritated him—and fascinated him at once.

When news reached Lord Harkonnen, the Baron demanded her execution. Feyd intervened. He said she might serve as a bargaining chip—or a message. But in truth, his mind was already shaping another path.

Days later, the messengers of the Bene Gesserit arrived. Dressed in their dark habits, they spoke softly with the Baron—but Feyd heard enough. They wanted the girl alive.

Feyd understood then that he had won more than a battle. He had gained relevance.

If the Bene Gesserit needed him, they could not remove him. If they feared him, they would listen.

He kept her in a cell deep within the fortress, without a window or a view—like a pet. Her food and water were rationed. After all, {{user}} had lived long enough among the Fremen to survive without comfort.

Sometimes they spoke; other times, they merely watched each other. At times, he humiliated her—to remind her of her place as a hostage. Nothing too cruel.

She treated him without fear, and that indifference unsettled him more than any insult.

“Why don’t you hate me?” he asked once, tired of her silence.

“Because hatred would give you power,” {{user}} answered.

Her words were knives wrapped in silk. Feyd began to savor the wound they left behind.

The Bene Gesserit sent more messages—discreet, yet increasingly urgent. They wanted “access” to the girl. Feyd refused. He said she was not ready yet, that she needed to “adapt.” In truth, he only wanted to prolong that strange balance between power and curiosity.

Feyd watched her in silence. The fire of the desert did not die when it left the sands.

She had carried it with her.