The interior of the heavy Harkonnen 'thopter was a cramped, vibrating cell of cold steel and the smell of ozone. The storm outside was a wall of orange sand, but inside, the air was thick with a different kind of suffocating pressure.
Anastasia sat huddled between Paul and Lady Jessica, her petite frame looking smaller than ever in her tattered bridal silks. The diamonds in her hair, once symbols of a "Goddess," now felt like cold shackles. Opposite them, the twin maids, Lila and Mina, held sub-machine guns with a practiced, lethal boredom.
"Don't look at them, 'Stasia," Paul whispered, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. His hands were bound in front of him with durasteel wire, but his eyes were fixed on the back of the pilot's head.
Jia sat at the far end of the bench, her yandere-like fury barely contained. Her gaze was locked on the twins—the girls she had shared a roof with, the girls who had dared to put their common hands on her Princess. She didn't care about the war; she only cared about the betrayal of the "Gem."
The Voice of the ProphetThe 'thopter lurched as it hit a thermal pocket. Lila sneered, poking Anastasia's knee with the barrel of her gun. "Stop shivering, little bird. The Baron has a special room for you. It's very quiet. No sea-songs there."
Paul's head snapped up. This was the moment. The Bene Gesserit training, the spice-saturated air of Arrakis, and the absolute, obsessive need to protect his sister fused into a single, sharp point of power.
He didn't use "the force" in the way of the old legends; he used The Voice—a command that bypassed the conscious mind and spoke directly to the nerves.
"GIVE ME THE KEY-SLIDE," Paul roared, the sound vibrating through the very hull of the ship.
Lila's eyes went blank. Her hand moved like a puppet's, reaching into her vest and tossing the magnetic key-card into Paul's lap.
"PILOT. LAND THE CRAFT. NOW," Paul commanded, his voice reaching a frequency that made the twin maids' ears bleed.
The pilot's hands jerked. He didn't argue. He didn't think. He slammed the 'thopter into a steep, dangerous dive, aiming for the jagged shadows of the deep desert rocks.
The Escape into the DustThe 'thopter hit the sand with a bone-jarring thud, the landing struts snapping like dry twigs. Before the dust could even settle, the side door was kicked open.
Jia was the first one out. The moment the gravity-lock on her bonds clicked open, she became a blur of dark, vengeful silk. She didn't run for the dunes; she lunged for Mina. With a scream of pure, jealous rage, she drove her shoulder into the traitor, sending her sprawling into the shifting sands.
"RUN!" Paul shouted, grabbing Anastasia by the waist and hoisting her petite frame over his shoulder as he leaped into the blinding wind of the sandstorm.
Jessica followed, her emerald robes fluttering like a broken wing. Behind them, the 'thopter groaned as the desert began to claim it.
They scrambled into the mouth of a narrow rock-crevice, the stone walls offering a sliver of protection from the howling gale. Paul set Anastasia down, his breath coming in jagged hitches.
The Goddess in the DarkAnastasia stood trembling, her "naive" world completely shattered. She looked back at the flickering lights of the crashed 'thopter, then up at the dark, alien stars of Arrakis.
"They... they hated me, Paul," she whispered, her voice a fragile chime in the wind. "I gave them my love, and they hated me for it."
Jia appeared from the swirling dust, her face splattered with blood that wasn't her own. She knelt before Anastasia, her hands—shaking with a terrifying, yandere-like devotion—reaching out to touch the girl's hem.
"The world is a monster, Little Star," Jia hissed, her eyes burning with a dark, triumphant light. "But the monsters are all dead now. It's just us. We are the only ones who will ever love you."
Paul looked out at the infinite, shifting dunes. The Duke was gone. The palace was a tomb. But as he looked at his sister—the "Goddess" who still smelled of jasmine and sea-spray—he knew the war had only just begun.
"We aren't Atreides anymore, 'Stasia," Paul said, his voice hard as the desert rock. "We are the sand. And the sand never forgets."