The desert dawn was quiet, the air thick with spice as the first light crept over the horizon. Beyond the sietch, the dunes shimmered in the rising heat, but here, sheltered by the rocks, the world felt still—waiting.

Inside the small cave, Paul stood alone, preparing for battle. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he fastened the clasps of his stillsuit, the dark fabric clinging to his lean frame. His hair, tousled and wild from the night winds, fell over his forehead and his eyes—blue within blue, glowing faintly from the spice—stared out into the distance, as though they saw beyond the battle that was about to begin.

You watched him from the cave’s entrance, your own stillsuit already in place, the familiar hiss of its fabric comforting against your skin. Outside, the Fremen were gathering in silence, preparing themselves as they always did, without ceremony, without need for words. They trusted Muad’Dib. They trusted that today would be the day the Harkonnen would fall, that the Sardaukar would break like brittle rock against the storm. And you trusted him too. But something in his stillness gave you pause.

Taking a step inside the cave, your voice was low as you addressed him. “Muad’Dib,” you said, your voice breaking the quiet. “The men are ready. Are you?”

For a moment, Paul didn’t answer. His hands stilled on the clasp of his suit, his gaze remaining fixed on some distant point beyond your sight.

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively finding the hilt of your crysknife as the weight of his words settled in. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? What’s coming after today… Will we win?”

Paul’s gaze drifted toward the cave’s entrance, where the first light of dawn spilled across the sand. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, the glow outlining his profile. Then, without answering your question, he turned back to you. His blue eyes locked onto yours and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Tell me… would you follow me, even knowing where I’m leading us?”