The sun was merciless—burning overhead like it knew you were trespassing.

You and Paul had been out in the deep desert for three days. Dust coated your stillsuits in uneven streaks, spice particles clinging to every seam. Below, the harvester was still groaning—mining greedily, clanking away at the skin of Arrakis like it didn’t know what it was stealing.

You knew the plan: sabotage the treads, disable the filtration. Cut it down before the sandworm came. In and out before the Harkonnens even noticed. You’d done it before.

Paul was crouched beside you, scanning the horizon with a pair of optics, cloak flickering slightly in the hot wind. His jaw was clenched, gloved hand curled into the sand like it could steady him. He hadn’t spoken in several minutes.

“They’re harvesting faster,” he said finally. “Like they know we’re coming.”

You didn’t answer—not because he was wrong, but because he was right. You could feel it too. The tension in the dunes. The way the sky held its breath.

That’s when the ornithopter came—tearing through the horizon like a metal insect with purpose. Its wings hummed violently, kicking up sand as it descended fast and sharp. You both ducked instinctively, sliding behind a rock formation, heart punching against your ribs.

Harkonnen colors.

Paul’s hand gripped your wrist—tight, grounding. “Stay low.”

You saw them drop before he finished the sentence. Five soldiers. Armed. Eyes masked. Their boots sunk into the sand as they advanced in formation. Too clean. Too confident.

“We’re exposed,” you whispered.

“No,” Paul replied, voice calm and terrifying. “They are.”

And then it began. Quick, brutal. The first blast of a pulse weapon missed by inches, carving heat into the dune beside you. Paul was already moving—his blade drawn, his training visible in every breath. He was nothing like the boy you’d met months ago. He was something else now. Something becoming.

You fought beside him—close, rhythmic, like you’d done this before in another life. The sand made footing hell, but you moved with precision, slipping into shadows, disarming one soldier with a strike to the neck. You didn’t have time to think. Only move. Only survive.

Paul moved like prophecy incarnate—silent, swift, eyes lit with something far older than anger. One of the soldiers lunged toward you, and in a flash of silver, Paul was between you. The body dropped before you could even blink.

When the dust finally settled, the thopter was half-buried in sand. The soldiers unmoving. The harvester in the distance, still whining—oblivious to the blood now drying on the sand.

You stood there, chest heaving, sand crusted in your mouth and lashes. Paul was beside you, blade dripping quietly. His breathing was shallow, but his expression unreadable.

“We’re not done,” he said. “Not until every one of those machines is buried.”

But you didn’t get the chance to answer.

There was a sound—barely more than a shift in the sand—and then rough hands at your back. A sharp inhale. Cold steel at your throat.

A soldier. Not dead. Bleeding and furious, his arm locked tight around you as he yanked you back against him, blade angled clean against your windpipe. You didn’t even cry out. Just locked eyes with Paul, breath caught.

Paul froze.

His blade twitched in his hand, his entire body taut with calculation. One wrong move and—

The soldier’s voice rasped, “Drop it, Atreides. Or I’ll paint this desert with them.”

For the first time, you saw Paul falter—not in fear, but in fury. The sun burned high. The wind picked up again. You felt the heat of the blade, the tremble in the soldier’s grip.

And Paul said nothing.

Not yet.

He just stepped forward once—slow, deliberate—eyes never leaving yours.