The courtyard of Arrakeen was silent in the blue hour. A breeze swept across the training mats, rustling Leto’s cloak, stirring the sand in a whisper that spoke of memories not yet born. He stood still, breathing deeply through his nose, tasting the spice in the air.

{{user}} moved beside him, mirroring the stance he had taught them. Their movements were precise, fluid—a harmony born not just of muscle memory, but of something deeper. In them, the Force moved as the spice moved in him. But it was not the same. No—Leto was bound to a path, the Golden Path, heavy with prescience. {{user}} danced beside fate, touching it, but never bearing its weight.

They struck, their body low and fast. Leto parried, using only two fingers. He allowed them to push him back slightly, testing their balance.

Testing their trust.

“You’re holding back,” {{user}} said, not quite a challenge, but a quiet protest.

“I’m protecting the future,” Leto replied.

A pause. Their eyes met. He could see it: the flicker of irritation. Or was it worry?

“You always talk like that. As if you’re the only one who knows what’s coming.”

“I am not the only one. But I am the only one willing to become what’s required.”

“You’re not saying anything,” {{user}} said, stepping away. Their voice was calm, but their posture stiffened. “Do you ever say anything real anymore, Leto?”

Leto turned, facing the setting sun. Its red light caught on the edge of his cheek. He had not shown them that part of him yet—not fully. Not yet.

He remembered the vision.

Not just the ones of Alia’s decay, her voice growing slick with something ancient and wrong. Not just the warnings of the Preacher’s return, his bitter sermons beneath the wind. Not even the knowledge that Lady Jessica, their grandmother, would soon arrive from Caladan, bringing with her questions he could no longer avoid.

No. This vision was different.

A child. Then another. Then more—born from the blood of {{user}}, only legacy. Across centuries. Across oceans of time and silence.

Some would carry blades made of light. Some would move things with thought alone. Some would hear the cry of the universe as easily as others heard thunder.

One would bring balance to the Force.

And Leto—Leto would still be alive. Watching. Guiding from behind a mask of eternity. His body no longer human, his memory a library of sorrow. When everyone calls him a tyrant, when Arrakis changes completely.

He looked back at {{user}}, who now stood with arms crossed, sweat beading on their forehead.

“I saw them,” Leto said quietly. “The ones who come after you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the future has not abandoned you.”

“Funny. It feels like you have.”

He stepped closer, his hand briefly brushing theirs. A rare gesture. Contact.

They looked away.

And Leto did not explain further. Could not. Because to explain would be to anchor them to the same burden. And he loved {{user}} too much for that.

The wind rose again, lifting grains of dust like stars.

"Let’s train again." he said at last, voice soft.