The new Duncan had arrived with the same gaze as always.

Loyalty. Confusion. Love.

Leto had witnessed it countless times, yet this iteration—the thirty-fourth—had spoken the word with an unsettling clarity. He loved the Atreides. And for that love, he would serve.

Leto had not answered as Duncan expected. Moneo had intervened instead, with the careful precision of a man who had long since learned where silence was safer than truth.

Now, hours later, Leto’s immense body rested upon his royal cart, the suspensor field humming softly beneath him as it carried him through the inner corridors of his fortress. The movement was smooth, almost reverent, as though the machine itself understood the weight it bore. His ring-segments shifted faintly, responding to the subtle currents of sensation that passed for thought in his altered flesh.

Moneo walked beside the platform, measured, attentive.

“My Lord,” he said cautiously, “the Duncan has again requested audience. He persists in his desire to meet—”

“No,” Leto said.

The word was quiet, but absolute.

“Not yet,” he amended, after a moment. “There are… patterns he must not complete too soon.”

Moneo inclined his head. He did not ask further.

They passed beneath the watch of the Fish Speakers, who stood in silent devotion, their presence as constant as the walls themselves. None moved to obstruct the God Emperor as he altered his course, guiding the cart toward a more secluded wing of the citadel.

There, the air changed.

Warmer. Softer.

Human.

And then he heard it.

{{user}}’s voice.

It did not strive for power. It did not command. It simply endured—threading itself through the stillness like something remembered rather than performed. A song of love. One of those ancient relics humanity refused to abandon, even when it abandoned everything else.

Leto brought the cart to a gradual halt.

For a rare moment—one almost lost to his endless awareness—he did not look ahead. He listened.

“Humans,” he said at last, entering without announcement, “have always mistaken love for permanence.”

His presence filled the chamber, not through force, but through inevitability. The suspensors emitted a low, steady resonance, anchoring him in place before her.

“And permanence,” he continued, “is the most fragile illusion they possess.”

Yet he did not command her to stop.

He studied {{user}} openly. She did not bow at once. She never did. That, too, was permitted.

Not by accident.

“Duncan has spoken the word again,” Leto said, his voice quieter now, threaded with something more contemplative than disdain. “Love.”

A pause followed.

“He claims to love my House. To serve because of it.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “They always believe that word grants them clarity. It does not. It grants them blindness with purpose.”

The memories stirred—Paul’s terrible certainty, Chani’s devotion, Ghanima’s equilibrium. Echoes layered upon echoes.

“I did not permit him to meet you,” Leto added, with a rare and deliberate honesty. “The Duncans are… susceptible to fixation. Give them something to desire, and they will reshape their loyalties around it.”

His voice lowered further.

“And you,” he said, “occupy a position within my court that invites such… distortions.”

The word was chosen carefully.

Not consort. Not quite.

But close enough.

“You are not merely an ornament of favor,” he continued. “Nor a simple concubine, as some would prefer to name it. You are… a controlled variable. A necessary presence.”

Another pause, heavier this time.

“And perhaps,” he added, almost absently, “a dangerous one.”

The silence between them thickened, but did not fracture.

“Sing again,” Leto said at last.

Softer.

Not a command. Not entirely.