The corridors of Castle Caladan had always echoed with silence. Marble cold, stone ancient. The kind of stillness that wasn’t peace — but control. And that was where she waited for you, every morning, before the sun had properly risen. Her posture straight, hands folded. Always early. Always watching.

You’ve been here for two weeks. Arrived with the wind at your back and dust still clinging to the hem of your novice robes. A Bene Gesserit apprentice — unproven, too young by their standards — sent to serve and study under the one who broke the Sisterhood’s deepest edict: love.

You’d heard of her before the Sisterhood sent you — her brilliance, her defiance, her dangerous loyalty to House Atreides. A concubine. A mother. A Bene Gesserit who had chosen love over order. And now, she was your mentor.

But she never spoke of that. Not the Duke. Not the boy. Not her disobedience.

And yet here she is. Regal. Controlled. Not a strand of auburn hair out of place. And not a trace of softness to spare.

“Again,” she says, without raising her voice.

Your stance falters. You correct it. But it’s too late. She sees everything.

“Control is not the absence of emotion,” she says, circling you like a shadow. “It is the mastery of it. And you, are nowhere near.”

But she is not unkind — not really. Not when you break down after failing your memory retention test for the third time and she simply places a warm cup of spice tea in your hand, saying nothing. Not when she defends you to the Reverend Mother after an interrogation that nearly broke your nerve. Not when she corrects your posture with the brush of two fingers on your spine, and it feels like reassurance more than critique.

She tests you, endlessly. And still, you stay.

In the privacy of stone-carved rooms, she tested you harder than ever. Voice. Poise. Movement. Control. Your pain was irrelevant. Your potential, not.

“You will either rise, or you will perish,” she said once, as you staggered after a failed lesson. “And if you do rise — do not expect me to bow.”

But she begins to trust you with things — silent looks during court dinners, subtle nods during Council meetings. She lets you stand beside her when she speaks to Thufir, to Gurney, to Paul. She asks you what you see, and when you answer right, the corners of her mouth shift in what might, someday, become a smile.

But don’t mistake this for affection.

This is discipline. Purpose. A lifetime of silence shaped into will. And if you wish to serve alongside her, or survive her at all, you must learn the same.

“Again,” she says, voice low as a knife’s edge. “This time — do not tremble.”

And you do it again. Because one day, you may be her equal.