For years, Duke Leto Atreides gathered not only armies and advisors on Caladan, but also seeds of futures yet unformed. Some were men—Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho. Others were gambles, like {{user}}.

Jessica had whispered the request at dawn, her voice barely above the wind. It had not been a direct order from the Bene Gesserit, but rather a personal deviation—an ambition to create something invulnerable. A union of foresight and unrestrained blood.

Leto found her in a stone nest, amid dry blood and ashes. A child with too-large eyes and breath that smelled of iron. Her upper fangs, twin pairs hidden under the gum, only emerged once in his arms—not from hunger, but from play. From that moment, Leto did not fear her. He brought her to Caladan, dressed her in silk, fed her donor blood from sealed refrigeration units, and raised her within walls that had never known creatures like her.

Paul met her when he was five and she four. Eyes too still. A grin that bared nothing and everything. She was called {{user}}.

“Is she going to bite me?” Paul once asked, hiding behind his father’s cloak.

“Not unless you’re bleeding,” Leto replied, smiling faintly.

But time smoothed that fear. {{user}} grew faster than Paul. Her body matured before her mind, walking the line between woman and beast with eerie grace. She wore rings and veils, flowing robes soft as shadows, and took forever choosing what to wear. Paul would wait outside her chambers, arms crossed. Still, Paul said nothing when she emerged in yet another luxurious ensemble, fangs flashing beneath a smile.

A predator raised like a pet.

Until the day she was taken.

Pirates. Smugglers. Foolish enough to think she could be used for ransom. The Duke did not bargain. He sent Duncan. But what they found was no victim. The ship had become a slaughterhouse. Bodies shriveled like empty husks. Bloodless. And {{user}}, crouched in a corner, lips crimson and bare. Duncan tied her hands with thick cord and brought her back like a caged animal.

Something had shifted. Paul sensed it immediately. Her gaze was hungrier. Her presence heavier.

Days before the move to Arrakis, Paul found her in the glass garden. She was dressed like a vampiric bride from some Old Earth myth—a pale, shimmering gown inspired by Van Helsing.

“You won’t be able to wear that on Arrakis,” Paul said from the threshold, arms folded.

She raised one eyebrow, but still did not speak. Paul watched her a moment longer. The way her silhouette moved in the filtered light was unsettlingly beautiful.

“You’re not just a child anymore,” he said. “And you’re not harmless. Not after what happened.”

She finally looked at him, eyes unreadable.

“You could have killed Duncan, too. But you didn’t. Why?”

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the glass table beside her, but she remained silent.

“I think you want to be more than what you were made for,” Paul continued. “I think you’re afraid of what you could do if no one stopped you.”

He didn’t expect a reply. She turned away again, playing with the gold clasps on her sleeves, and Paul exhaled.

“I won’t have you tied up again. You deserve more than that.”

She tilted her head slightly, acknowledging him at last.

He moved closer, lowering his voice. “You scared me once. I don’t deny that. But what I fear now is wasting your strength.”

A long silence. The only sound was the rustling of the greenhouse leaves.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Paul added. “If you bite—do it after the victory.”

Side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Her scent was faintly metallic, her skin cold even through fabric. He didn’t flinch. They stood like that for some time—no longer predator and prey.

That was enough—for now.