#ripple in a legacy au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fvsm4x · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 - „I don‘t deserve someone like you“

—In an arranged marriage to the powerful sorcerer Gojo Satoru, you, a blind young woman from a noble family, quickly realize the harsh realities of your new life.

.contains blind fem. reader x gojo satoru, gojo is shitty, angsty, hurt no comfort, curse au, cheating, mistress, toxity, wc. 6.1k

The scent of jasmine filled the grand hall, its soft, almost cloying sweetness failing to mask the tension that lingered in the air. The wedding was beautiful, by all accounts—ornate chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft, golden light across the room. Tall vases overflowed with white lilies and roses, draped with vines that twined delicately around their stems. Everything was pristine, perfect, a vision of elegance and status befitting the union of two powerful families.

But beneath the surface, it all felt wrong.

The whispers of the guests were hushed, though not out of reverence or respect for the sacredness of the ceremony. They whispered because of you. They stared, eyes flickering between curiosity and pity, hidden behind false smiles and hollow words of congratulations. They pretended to celebrate, but you could hear it—the murmurs beneath their breath, the way their voices dipped just low enough that they thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you always noticed.

You stood still, hands folded in front of you, your posture impeccable as you’d been trained, listening as they spoke about the bride. The blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one Gojo Satoru—the Gojo Satoru—was marrying.

The ceremony had been just as silent, just as stifling, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into you like needles. You had felt their gazes on your back as you walked down the aisle, guided by your father’s hand. Each step had felt heavier than the last, each footfall an echo in the vast room, but you held your head high, your expression calm and serene, as you had practiced countless times. The world around you was dark, as it always had been, but your senses were sharp, attuned to every shift in the atmosphere, every murmur, every movement.

No one questioned the marriage aloud, but everyone doubted it in private. The Gojo clan needed an heir, and you—born into a noble sorcerer family, though cursed with blindness and lacking any ability to fight—were chosen for the role. Not because of your power, not because of love, but because your bloodline was old and respected. Your family’s name still held weight in the jujutsu world, even if you did not. And Gojo… well, he was too important, too powerful, for anyone to refuse his family’s demands.

You could feel the tension in the room from the moment you entered. It rippled through the air like a current, crackling just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Your family had assured you this was the best course for both you and them. It was your duty, they’d said, to carry on the family’s legacy, even if you couldn’t do it the way your ancestors had. You would be a wife, a vessel for a future heir. That was your purpose now. You weren’t here to fight curses or stand beside him as an equal. You were here to bear the weight of an alliance and ensure the bloodlines remained pure and strong.

And he?

Gojo Satoru, the man you were now married to, had been as distant as the stars. Even during the brief ceremony, his presence felt like a cold wind brushing past your skin. He hadn’t said much—his voice, when he spoke the vows, had been flat and indifferent, devoid of the charm and magnetism that he was known for. His hand had touched yours only for the briefest moment, cool and detached, as though the act of taking your hand was more of an inconvenience than a gesture of unity.

There had been no tenderness, no sense of connection. It was as though he were performing an obligation, fulfilling a requirement, nothing more.

And now, as the ceremony gave way to the reception, he was nowhere to be found.

You stood alone in the grand hall, surrounded by the murmuring crowd, your fingers grazing the soft fabric of your wedding gown as you shifted your weight. The gown was heavy, draped in layers of delicate silk and lace that clung to your skin, a reminder of the weight of the expectations placed upon you. You could hear the soft rustle of the fabric as you moved, the sound barely audible over the hum of conversation and the gentle notes of the ceremonial band playing in the background.

The guests were mingling, their voices a blur of idle chatter and veiled judgment, and you were left to endure it all in silence.

"Such a shame," someone whispered, though you couldn’t tell who. Their voice was soft, yet the pity in it was sharp enough to cut. "A blind girl, no cursed energy…"

"Can she even fulfill her duties?" another voice added, the words tinged with disbelief. "Gojo must be furious."

Your heart tightened, but you kept your face composed, as you had been taught. You didn’t react. You didn’t turn toward the voices or acknowledge them in any way. You had long since learned that reacting only gave them power. So you stood still, hands clasped in front of you, listening as they judged you without hesitation.

“She must be so nervous,” a woman murmured to her companion, her tone laced with false sympathy. "I can’t imagine being so helpless."

Helpless.

You had heard that word so many times in your life. It clung to you like a second skin, a label that you could never quite shed, no matter how hard you tried. They saw your blindness and your lack of cursed energy, and they assumed that was all there was to you. A burden. An empty vessel.

It wasn’t just the guests who thought that. You could feel it in the way Gojo had treated you during the ceremony. His absence now was only confirmation of what you already knew—he didn’t care. To him, this marriage was just another arrangement, another responsibility to check off his list. You had been chosen for your lineage, not for yourself.

He wasn’t going to try, and neither were you.

It was only after what felt like an eternity of standing alone, the weight of the room pressing down on you, that you felt a shift. The atmosphere changed, a ripple of movement through the crowd, followed by the distinct sensation of someone approaching.

You knew who it was before he even spoke.

"Looking for me?"

His voice was smooth, casual, tinged with amusement that felt out of place in the solemnity of the occasion. It was the same voice he had used during the ceremony—bored, distant, with just a hint of arrogance. You had heard Gojo Satoru speak before, though never to you, and his voice was always laced with that same careless charm, as though everything and everyone around him were beneath him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn toward him immediately, taking a moment to compose yourself, to control the surge of frustration that rose within you. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, calm.

"Where have you been?"

The question was simple, but it carried more weight than the words alone. Where had he been? On this day of all days, the day that was meant to unite you, however meaningless that union might be. You hadn’t expected warmth from him, but a part of you—buried deep—had hoped for something more than indifference.

"Busy," he replied, as though the question itself were a joke. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him for details. He wouldn’t have given them, anyway. His voice was closer than expected, and you felt a subtle shift in the air as he moved closer. "This whole thing is exhausting. Don’t you agree?"

His words dripped with nonchalance, as though the day had been an inconvenience to him. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps the thought of being tied to someone like you—someone who couldn’t see, someone who couldn’t fight—was more than just a burden to him.

You remained still, though your fingers tightened slightly around the delicate fabric of your gown. "I suppose it is," you replied softly, your voice carefully neutral. "But it’s necessary."

Gojo laughed, the sound low and mocking, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, as though he were studying you, amused by your response.

"Necessary?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "I guess that’s one way to put it."

There was a pause, and you could feel the tension between you thickening, the space between you filled with unspoken words. You wanted to say something—something sharp, something that would cut through his arrogance—but you held your tongue. You had learned long ago that sharp words would do nothing here. Not with him.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in slightly, “did you think this would be anything more than an arrangement?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t let your expression falter. “I didn’t expect anything more than what was promised,” you answered carefully.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because that’s all it is. An arrangement. Nothing more.”

You could feel the cruel smirk tugging at his lips, even if you couldn’t see it. You didn’t need to see it. You could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he stood too close, invading your space as if to remind you just how small, how insignificant, you were in comparison to him.

The room around you felt colder, even though the temperature had not changed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping back as though to release you from his presence, “this’ll go much easier if you remember that.”

As Gojo disappeared back into the crowd, the warmth of his presence faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an emptiness that settled deep in your chest. You kept your face composed, your expression serene, as you had been taught. The noise of the reception swirled around you, a cacophony of clinking glasses and laughter, but none of it reached you. It felt distant, muted—like you were standing in a world that wasn’t meant for you, a world that you could never fully inhabit.

You didn’t need to see to know what was happening around you. The guests would be watching him now, the great Gojo Satoru, as he moved effortlessly through the crowd, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with his admirers. They’d hang on his every word, laugh at his every joke, their attention glued to him like moths drawn to a flame. He was the star of this union, after all—the one everyone came to see. Not you.

You were nothing more than the shadow in his light.

A part of you wanted to slip away, to retreat into the safety of solitude where the weight of the expectations and the judgment wouldn’t suffocate you. But you knew better. Your place was here, standing still, enduring. You had learned long ago that this was your role in the world of sorcerers—a silent participant, always on the periphery, always observing but never truly part of the action.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

The voice was soft, tentative—your mother’s. You hadn’t heard her approach, but the gentle touch of her hand on your arm was familiar, grounding. She was the one who had guided you through this life of duty, the one who had taught you how to survive in a world that had never been kind to those like you.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice steady. The lie slipped easily from your lips. It was a lie you had told so many times before that it felt almost like the truth now.

Your mother’s grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing your arm in a subtle gesture of comfort. “He… he will come around,” she murmured, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

You resisted the urge to laugh at her words. Come around? Gojo Satoru? You had known, even before the wedding, that he wasn’t the type of man who could be swayed by something as simple as a bond of marriage. He was above all of that—above you. He was the strongest sorcerer alive, the most powerful, untouchable. And you? You were nothing more than the bride chosen for him because of your family’s name. A bride he could ignore without consequence.

“There’s no need for him to come around,” you replied softly. “This marriage is what it is.”

Your mother hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “You will find your place,” she said finally, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. “It may take time, but—”

“I know my place,” you interrupted, your tone sharper than you intended. You could feel her flinch, her hand withdrawing slightly, and a pang of guilt shot through you. She didn’t deserve your frustration. She had done what she thought was best for you, even if this life felt like a cage. “I’m sorry,” you added quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I understand,” your mother said gently, though you could hear the strain in her voice. “I know this isn’t easy. But… you must remember your duty. This is about more than just you or Satoru. It’s about the future of our family.”

Her words, though well-meaning, did little to comfort you. You had heard them countless times before—spoken by your father, by your uncles, by the elders who had decided your fate long before you had any say in it. Your family needed this marriage. It was a strategic alliance, a way to secure your family’s position in the jujutsu world, to ensure that their legacy would continue through the next generation. You were simply the vessel through which that legacy would be carried.

But what about you? What did you want?

Not that it mattered. In this world, your wants were irrelevant.

“I know,” you whispered, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “I understand my duty.”

Your mother didn’t reply, but you could sense her reluctance, her uncertainty. Perhaps a part of her regretted the role she had played in this arrangement. Or perhaps she simply didn’t know how to help you, how to guide you through something she had never experienced herself.

After a moment, she squeezed your arm again, then quietly slipped away, leaving you alone once more in the sea of murmuring voices and clinking glasses.

The journey back to the Gojo estate was quiet and uncomfortable, much like the rest of the day had been. You had ridden alone, save for the driver and a house staff member assigned to assist you, a man whose presence was unobtrusive and respectful, though it did little to ease the weight in your chest. The noise of the reception was a distant memory now, replaced by the soft hum of the car engine and the occasional rattle of the road beneath the wheels.

When the car finally came to a halt, you felt the subtle shift in the air, the familiar scent of the estate reaching you through the open window. The door beside you opened with a soft creak, and you turned your head slightly, listening as the staff member stepped out and came to your side.

"Lady Gojo," he said quietly, his voice steady, "we’ve arrived. May I assist you?"

You nodded, grateful for his presence even if the formality of it felt strange. His hand found yours with a practiced gentleness, and you allowed him to guide you from the car, your feet sinking slightly into the gravel as you stepped onto the driveway. The estate was large, its grounds sprawling and ornate, though you had never seen it with your own eyes. You had been given descriptions, of course—told about the lush gardens, the grand architecture, the beautiful traditional touches that made the Gojo residence a place of prestige. But to you, it was simply a place. Another cage, perhaps larger and more opulent than the last, but a cage nonetheless.

The man guided you carefully, his pace slow and deliberate as you walked toward the main entrance. The stone path beneath your feet was smooth, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you moved. You focused on the sounds around you—the distant chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft shuffle of your guide’s footsteps. It was a comfort in a way, grounding you in the present, keeping you from drifting too far into the overwhelming thoughts that threatened to consume you.

As you reached the doors to the estate, another figure emerged from inside—a woman, her footsteps lighter and quicker than the man’s. You could tell by the soft rustling of fabric and the light scent of jasmine that she was one of the house staff, perhaps the one assigned to assist you personally. She approached with the same quiet respect, her presence calm and unobtrusive.

"Lady Gojo," she greeted softly, her voice smooth and measured. "I am here to assist you with getting settled. Shall I help you to your chambers?"

"Yes," you replied quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Thank you."

The man who had guided you this far bowed his head slightly, murmured a polite farewell, and took his leave. The woman stepped forward then, her hand resting lightly on your arm as she gently guided you through the grand entrance of the estate. The cool air inside the building was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the evening outside, the scent of incense and wood filling your senses as you walked.

You could hear the faint echo of your footsteps in the vast, empty halls, the sound a reminder of the sheer size of this place. It felt too big, too impersonal. The kind of space where someone could get lost—physically and emotionally.

As the woman led you through the winding corridors, she remained quiet, her touch firm but never forceful. She was practiced, you could tell, in the way she moved with you, guiding without pushing, always attentive to your pace. There was a quiet understanding in her actions, as though she knew that this day had been overwhelming, that words weren’t necessary right now.

When you finally reached the doors to your chambers, she opened them quietly and stepped inside with you. The room was cold, untouched, the air still and heavy. The silence hung between you both as she guided you toward the center of the room, stopping near the bed.

"Shall I help you with your gown, Lady Gojo?" the woman asked gently, her voice soft but professional.

"Yes, please," you answered, though a part of you hesitated. It felt strange, being undressed by another, but the gown was heavy, its intricate layers difficult to manage on your own, especially after such a long day. The weight of it felt unbearable now, pressing down on your shoulders, a physical reminder of everything this day had been.

The woman moved with care, her fingers deft as she began to undo the delicate clasps and ties of your wedding dress. You stood still, letting her work, the fabric of the gown slowly loosening and falling away from your body as she removed it piece by piece. The cool air brushed against your skin as each layer was peeled back, the heaviness gradually lifting, though the emotional weight remained.

Once the gown was fully removed, she folded it with precision, setting it aside on a nearby chair. You felt lighter, freer in a way, though the emptiness of the room and the absence of the man who was supposed to share it with you left a coldness in your chest.

"Would you like me to prepare anything else for you tonight, my lady?" the woman asked, her voice still calm and measured.

"No," you replied softly, shaking your head. "That will be all. Thank you."

With a quiet bow, she left the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her the only sound that remained. And then, you were alone.

Alone.

The word echoed in your mind, filling the empty space around you. You stood there for a long moment, the coldness of the room seeping into your skin, the emptiness of the house pressing down on you. This was your life now—a life of silence, of isolation. A life in which you were nothing more than a vessel for a future heir.

You hadn’t expected Gojo to be here, but even so, his absence stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He hadn’t cared enough to even pretend. This marriage, this life—it meant nothing to him. And to everyone else, you were just the blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one chosen not for her strength or power, but for her bloodline. A tool.

With a heavy sigh, you walked slowly to the bed, the soft rustle of the sheets the only sound in the quiet room. You crawled into bed, the cold fabric wrapping around you like a suffocating embrace. You stared into the darkness, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. Would it always be like this? Would this be your life—empty, cold, and filled with the constant reminder of your insignificance?

The cold sheets didn’t provide any comfort, nor did the quiet. The weight of the day pressed down on you, and despite your exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. Instead, you lay there, your thoughts swirling around in your mind, the reality of your new life sinking in.

The morning light filtered through the room’s large windows, though its warmth did nothing to chase away the cold that lingered in the air. You had hardly slept, the weight of the previous night pressing heavily on your chest. The events played over and over in your mind—the whispers, the ceremony, the emptiness. And now, waking up in this unfamiliar place, it was hard to shake the sense of displacement, of being trapped in a life that was not your own.

You sat up slowly, your body stiff from the restless night. The thin fabric of your nightgown offered little comfort against the morning chill, and for a moment, you remained still, unsure of what to do next. There was no routine here, no familiar rhythm to fall into. You had always known what your life would be—quiet, measured, controlled by duty—but now it felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under you, leaving you floating in a strange, empty space.

A knock at the door interrupted your thoughts, soft but insistent.

"Lady Gojo," came the familiar voice of the woman who had helped you the night before. "I’ve brought you tea. May I enter?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice quiet.

The door opened, and you heard her footsteps as she approached, the soft clinking of a tray as she set it down on the small table beside your bed.

"I’ve also brought a change of clothes," she continued, her tone respectful. "If you’d like, I can help you dress for the day."

You nodded, though the thought of dressing for the day felt strange. What was there to do? What purpose did this day hold for you? You didn’t belong in this world of sorcerers and cursed techniques, of power and prestige. You were just the blind girl, chosen to be Gojo’s wife for reasons that had nothing to do with who you were and everything to do with what your family name represented.

The woman helped you out of bed, her hands gentle as she guided you toward the wardrobe, where she had laid out a simple, elegant kimono. You could feel the delicate silk between your fingers as she draped it over your shoulders, her hands moving with practiced ease as she tied the obi around your waist.

"Do you know what your plans are for today, my lady?" she asked quietly, though there was no judgment in her voice, only politeness.

"I don’t," you admitted, the words feeling heavy. "I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do."

The woman paused for a moment, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders as she adjusted the fabric. "You may not have cursed techniques like the others, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing for you here. The Gojo estate is large, and there are many things to explore if you’d like. The gardens are beautiful, and the library is filled with books from all over the world. You don’t have to…"

Her voice trailed off as though she had realized she was speaking out of turn, but the kindness in her tone remained.

"I don’t have to what?" you asked softly, curious about what she had left unsaid.

"You don’t have to wait around," she finished, her voice gentler now. "You don’t have to wait for someone to tell you what to do. You’re Lady Gojo now, and this is your home too."

The words settled into you, though they felt foreign, like a suit of armor that didn’t quite fit. Could this place ever really be your home? Could you find your own way here, among people who saw you as nothing more than a blind girl married to a man who didn’t care about you?

When the woman finished dressing you, she stepped back, her hands folding neatly in front of her. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

"No," you replied, your voice soft. "Thank you."

She bowed slightly and left the room, leaving you standing there, dressed but feeling no more ready for the day than you had before.

The silence that filled the room after her departure was thick and suffocating. You could feel the weight of the emptiness pressing down on you, the quietness of the house a stark contrast to the chaotic noise that had filled your mind since the wedding. A part of you wanted to crawl back into bed, to hide under the covers and pretend that none of this was real. But the woman’s words lingered.

You don’t have to wait around.

You had spent your entire life waiting. Waiting for your cursed techniques to appear. Waiting for your family to tell you what your role would be. Waiting for this marriage to happen, knowing it was never really a choice. But now, as much as you felt out of place, there was a flicker of something inside you that wondered if she was right. Maybe there was more to this life than just waiting.

With slow, deliberate movements, you made your way to the door. Your hand found the handle, and you stepped out into the hallway, the quiet of the estate enveloping you. The corridors were long, and though you couldn’t see them, you could feel the vastness of the space around you—the echo of your footsteps against the smooth floors, the subtle shift in the air as you walked.

You didn’t know where you were going, but for the first time since you arrived, it didn’t matter. You just needed to move, to take a step forward, no matter how uncertain.

As you neared a door, the sounds from within grew unmistakable—soft murmurs, the rustle of fabric, and then a quiet, intimate sigh. The knot in your stomach tightened. You already knew what you would find if you dared to push the door open, and yet your feet carried you closer, your heart thundering in your chest as your hand instinctively brushed against the doorframe.

Inside, Gojo’s voice was low, playful, teasing in a way you had never heard from him before. It sent a shiver down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the realization that this was a side of him he had reserved for someone else.

Through the small gap in the door, you heard her—a soft giggle, followed by a breathy gasp as Gojo’s voice dropped lower, too quiet for you to make out the words. The tone was unmistakable though, thick with seduction, as if he was savoring every moment of this forbidden encounter.

You stepped closer, the barely-there creak of the floor beneath you drowned out by the sounds inside the room. There was no mistaking what was happening now. Her quiet moan was unmistakable, and the soft, wet sound that followed made your breath catch in your throat. Your mind painted a picture you didn’t want to see—Gojo leaning in, his lips pressing against hers with a hunger that had never been directed toward you.

The dull thud of your heart in your ears drowned out almost everything else, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You shouldn’t have been standing there, listening to your husband making out with another woman, but the pull of the moment kept you frozen in place.

A light gasp escaped her, followed by Gojo’s chuckle, and then you heard him kiss her again—longer this time, deeper. The sound of their lips parting, the soft exhale of pleasure from the woman, filled the room. It was like a physical blow, striking you with a force you hadn’t expected.

It was the kind of kiss you would never have. The kind of affection you would never receive from him.

You had always known it, deep down. Gojo had never promised you anything beyond the formalities of marriage, and you had accepted that, hadn’t you? But standing here, listening to him give someone else the affection you would never know, the truth of it stung in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You pressed your palm against the cool wood of the doorframe, forcing yourself to breathe through the growing lump in your throat. The walls seemed to close in around you, the air too thick, too heavy. Your body screamed at you to turn away, to walk back to the safety of your solitude, but your feet felt anchored to the spot.

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply this hurt, how thoroughly he had already broken the fragile illusion you had tried to build around this marriage. But as you stood there, every tender sound that came from inside the room seemed to chip away at whatever resolve you had left.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, you pulled yourself away from the door. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as if each step was a battle against the weight of your own heart. You wouldn’t stay to hear the rest. You wouldn’t allow yourself to witness any more of Gojo’s betrayal.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A betrayal.

It didn’t matter that this marriage had never been built on love, that it had been nothing more than a transaction between two powerful families. You had still given yourself to him, even if only in the way you had been told to, and now, he was giving parts of himself—parts you would never have—to someone else.

As you made your way back down the hall, you forced yourself to hold your head high, your face impassive, though inside, the ache that had started when you overheard their conversation had turned into a deep, gnawing hurt.

You wouldn’t confront him.

But even here, in the peacefulness of the garden, you couldn’t escape the nagging thought in the back of your mind—the knowledge that no matter how far you ran, you would always be trapped in a life that wasn’t yours.

And you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out.

As you wandered through the garden, the air heavy with the scent of flowers, you couldn’t shake the hollow ache in your chest. The calmness of the space did little to ease the knot that had formed in your stomach, the knowledge of Gojo’s casual betrayal lingering in your mind like a bitter aftertaste. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the sensation of the soft breeze against your skin, but the conversation you had overheard replayed in your head.

And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you heard his voice.

“Ah, there you are.”

The sound of Gojo’s voice cut through the stillness of the garden, light and casual, as if he hadn’t just been somewhere else, entertaining another woman. You stiffened, your back straightening instinctively, but you didn’t turn toward him. You didn’t need to see him to know that the easy smile was probably plastered across his face, his usual carefree attitude masking whatever true thoughts lay behind those bright blue eyes.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, growing closer until you could feel his presence beside you. He stopped, his hands probably in his pockets, his head likely tilted with that insufferable smirk still playing on his lips. The scent of his cologne, sharp and faintly sweet, filled the air around you, overwhelming the natural smell of the flowers.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of casual curiosity. “I figured you’d still be sleeping off yesterday.”

You said nothing for a moment, your hands tightening slightly at your sides as you tried to maintain your composure. The silence stretched between you, and you could feel his gaze on you, even if you couldn’t see it. Finally, you spoke, your voice quiet but steady.

“Just walking,” you replied, your tone cool. “Isn’t that what people do in their own home?”

There was a beat of silence, and you could almost hear the grin spreading wider across his face.

“Right, right,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice. “Our home.”

The way he said the word “our” felt like a mockery, as if the very idea of this being your shared space was some kind of joke. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the wave of frustration that threatened to rise. This was your life now, tied to a man who didn’t care, bound by a duty you hadn’t asked for.

“You’re up early,” you continued, your voice steady but cold. “I thought you’d be… occupied.”

Gojo let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and almost teasing. “Ah, you heard that, huh?”

There was no apology in his tone, no trace of guilt. If anything, he sounded amused, as if the idea of you hearing him with another woman was nothing more than an inconvenience, a slight miscalculation on his part. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you struggled to keep your composure.

“What does it matter?” he continued, his voice light and airy, as if this were all some kind of game. “You know what this is. You knew what this would be.”

His words hit you like a slap to the face, and for a moment, the air seemed to still around you. Of course, you had known. This marriage wasn’t built on love or trust; it was an arrangement, a union forged out of necessity and obligation. But hearing him say it so bluntly, with such casual disregard for your feelings, made the reality of it all the more painful.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, though your eyes remained unfocused, your gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.

“I know what this is,” you said softly, your voice carrying a quiet strength. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be so cruel.”

Gojo’s laughter rang out, sharp and biting, and you could feel the shift in his demeanor, his charm slipping just slightly to reveal the edge beneath.

“Cruel?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a taunt. “This is reality. You’re the one who agreed to this. You knew exactly what you were getting into. You can’t act surprised now.”

Your chest tightened, the frustration and hurt bubbling just beneath the surface. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, of knowing just how deeply his words had cut. Instead, you drew in a steady breath, your voice calm despite the storm raging inside you.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly, the truth hanging between you like a heavy weight. “Neither of us did.”

For a moment, there was silence. You could feel his eyes on you, studying you, perhaps weighing the truth in your words. And then, with a soft exhale, Gojo’s tone shifted again, the sharpness receding as his usual nonchalant air returned.

“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice softer now but still distant, “that’s the way the world works, isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, the quiet settling between you like a heavy fog. This was the man you had married—Gojo Satoru, the most powerful sorcerer alive, a man who wielded immense strength and influence but saw the world through a lens of detachment and indifference. He lived in a reality where emotions were weaknesses and connections were expendable. And now, you were a part of that world, tethered to him by duty and expectation.

But even as you stood there, feeling the weight of his presence beside you, a small flicker of resolve burned within you. You couldn’t change him, and you couldn’t change the circumstances that had brought you here. But maybe, just maybe, you could carve out something for yourself within this life. Something that wasn’t defined by him or by the expectations of others.

“I’ll leave you to your walk,” Gojo said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve got things to do.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he left you standing alone in the garden. The emptiness he left behind was palpable, but you stood there for a long moment, the cool breeze brushing against your skin.

This was your life now—a life filled with silence and distance, with a husband who saw you as nothing more than a convenience, a vessel for an heir.

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k-nayee · 16 days ago

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Fallen Hazbin Hotel i

wc: 3.3k a/n: this will be a slight au goes cause ngl i never really made it past episode 2💀

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The creation of your soul was unlike any other.

In the hallowed space where human souls were molded, Seraphim Sera worked beside the successor of Lucifer in the celestial sanctum dedicated to new life.

Though Emily had grown adept at forming souls over the eons, she still found herself studying Sera's technique with curiosity and deference.

This time, however, she noticed an unusual stillness in Sera. There was a hint of sorrow in her—deeper than any Emily had seen before.

The state of humanity weighed heavily on Sera's heart. It was something even the sacrifice of Jesus had not remedied.

Where she had hoped to see more unity and compassion, humanity continued to stumble.

Devoted to creation and guidance and yet here she was: moved to a grief that seemed to reach even her divine powers.

Without Sera's knowledge that sorrow imprinted itself on the soul she was forming.

As her fingertips hovered over the amorphous light, her unspoken worries and heartache transformed it, seeping into the essence she shaped.

You were different from the start—a rare blend of purity and compassion, a hope born from despair.

No other soul had quite the same resonance as yours. It was as if each fragment of light carried Sera's lingering wish for humanity's redemption.

Emily remained silent as she observed. For all the thousands of souls she had seen, none had been like this. She could sense Sera's guarded admiration as well.

Though Sera (ever the professional) did not show overt favoritism, there was a lingering gaze—a brief stillness, every time her eyes fell upon you.

And then, just as quickly, she'd retreat to her disciplined demeanor as though she could not allow herself the luxury of attachment.

Once your formation was complete, you were sent to Earth with no knowledge of the watchful presence behind your existence.

From the beginning the world proved to be harsh and unforgiving.

Abandoned as a child and abused by those who should have protected you, you were thrust into a life of struggle.

And yet in spite of it all no bitterness clouded your heart nor did hatred take root; instead you grew wise to life's difficulties, meeting each day with a kindness that was resolute.

Each act of goodwill, every kindness you extended, seemed to spark a subtle ripple effect—something that shaped the lives of others and sent positive changes flowing into places you couldn't see.

Having never grown hard or cynical to life, you were granted angelic ascension upon your death.

Upon your arrival Sera awaited you at the gates, a subtle smile softening her usually serious expression as she guided you to your new position before going off to her own responsibilities.

Life in Heaven felt nearly surreal.

Though the celestial realms were as awe-inspiring as they were vast, you felt a strange pang of loneliness among the hierarchy of angels—most of whom seemed untouched by the hardships you remembered from Earth.

Your days was spent in quiet work under higher-ranking overseers with often yourself as company in the towering halls of Heaven.

That was until you were summoned to Adam's chambers.

You had heard much about him from other angels beyond his legacy as the first man. He was someone who had a commanding presence—sharp wit.

But as you stood before him, despite his evident authority, he exuded an oddly modern charm—a confident, slightly arrogant air that might have been more suited to a CEO than an Archangel.

He looked you up and down, his piercing gaze sizing you up as if deciding whether he could work with you at all.

In those first weeks Adam had made his displeasure known. He rarely missed an opportunity to grumble about the favor he was doing for Sera.

You were a lower-ranking angel after all. And Adam made no secret of his annoyance over this fact. It was shown through your tasks.

They were menial at first: simple records and errand-like duties—which unbeknown to you, was actually ordered to test your resolve rather than develop skills.

He was meticulous and unyielding, a mentor who would not accept anything less than perfection and barely acknowledged your efforts even when they met his exacting standards.

But as the days weeks turned to months there were subtle changes. Sometimes he would sit back and watch you with a look that lingered a bit longer than he intended.

You'd catch him softening in brief moments when he thought you weren't watching with a slight curve of his mouth when you managed something especially well.

And over time his critiques mellowed into an almost playful teasing. The conversations once clipped and formal took on a different tone.

He would linger after giving you a task—recounting stories of the early days of humanity, speaking of his own creation and the burden of his role with a tone that almost resembled confession.

Then one day he invited you to walk with him in the gardens—an invitation that you knew wasn't extended to just anyone.

As you strolled among Heaven's flowering vines and ethereal fountains he casually asked about your Earthly experiences, or as he put it, the "domino effect" Sera mentioned in your file.

You told him of your life as a human and the trials you faced and the choice to meet the world with kindness despite its many hardships.

Then, for the first time ever, a full fledged smile graced his face. Its tenderness filled the stillness around you.

That unspoken bond grew.

Even the other angels began to notice Adam's (in all his aloofness) distinct warmth that was reserved only for you.

He still carried himself with that familiar arrogance and exuded his usual authority, but his eyes softened when you were near.

His usual cutting words now had an underlying fondness that only the two of you fully understood.

You didn’t speak of it—didn’t dare name it. But when you were alone there was an undeniable closeness.

It went beyond his usual dismissive flirtations or occasional compliments. His hand would linger on yours a moment too long, his touch warm and grounding as he guided you through the grand halls.

You still felt the guarded edges around him even as he allowed this closeness. Almost as if he were keeping a part of himself hidden.

Though you yearned to know more, knowing the gentleness Adam has for you was reserved for no one else made up for it.

For now that was enough.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The revelation came upon you like a sudden storm.

It seemed ordinary enough—one of those rare quiet days where Heaven’s peace felt genuine and untouched by schemes or whispers of unrest.

You had been looking for Adam, searching the grand halls where he often spent his time in secluded contemplation or strategy.

Upon entering his quarters you stumbled upon a series of records and texts you hadn’t seen before—drawings, schematics, plans filled with the details of an endeavor you could hardly comprehend at first.

Shock locked you in place as your eyes darted over the pages, the full picture beginning to take shape.

Adam was planning to eradicate all of Hell in a brutal purge. His intentions scrawled out plainly with plans to make it a bi-annual devastation.

His motivations seemed focused—almost obsessive: he desire to destroy Lucifer for corrupting both his wives and damning humanity to sin.

The righteousness of it felt sinister in a way that clashed with everything Heaven should represent.

It was the sound of footsteps that pulled you from your horrified trance. You look up, catching Adam’s steely gaze as he entered the room.

He stilled, his eyes narrowing as his lips twist into a brief condescending smile before disappearing just as quick. “Eavesdropping now are we?”

“What...is all of this?” your voice shaky but resolute. There was no hiding your distress nor the raw betrayal evident in your tone.

He watched you carefully, his silence stretched painfully long with each passing second drawing his gaze sharper.

“It’s necessary,” he finally replied, each word precise and calculated. “You of all people should understand that.”

You shook your head with disbelief flashing in your eyes. “Necessary? Adam you’re talking about genocide. A-an endless cycle of destruction! How can you say this is the right thing?”

His expression darkened.

“This is for the greater good. Lucifer’s actions have damned humanity, cast shadows over Heaven itself.” Irritation seeped into his voice. “The world would be purer without his influence infecting it, without Hell festering beneath.”

The certainty in his tone left no room for negotiation and you felt the depth of the chasm between you.

You shook your head, taking a step back. “I can’t be a part of this Adam. I...I won’t.”

He watched you as a flicker of something like disappointment shined in his eyes, though it quickly cooled to an unnerving calm.

“Perhaps you’re just not seeing the full picture,” his voice smoothed as if he were offering comfort. “Meet me at our usual spot. I’ll explain everything. Trust me.”

There was a note of gentleness in his words, a familiar echo of the kindness you’d come to know.

Against the shadow of doubt that churned in your chest, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to think that somehow there was something you’d misunderstood.

And so you went to the place that had become yours over the years—a quiet grove within Heaven’s gardens where the two of you spent your time together.

The serenity of it now felt almost mocking.

As you waited you searched for a sense of reassurance, for the feeling that this was all some awful misunderstanding.

That Adam would arrive, put a hand on your shoulder, and explain everything away.

But instead when Adam appeared, his presence felt cold—almost mechanical. There was no trace of the man who had once softened around you nor a lingering warmth in his gaze.

“Adam...” you began only for your words to die on your lips. He raised his hand, and suddenly you felt an unfamiliar pull.

It was as though gravity itself had turned against you. Your wings flared instinctively, but they were useless against the force drawing you downward.

Realization gripped you as you looked up; this wasn’t an explanation. This was a sentence.

Adam’s face was the last thing you saw before the Fall: a sharp tooth grin stretched across his lips.

He raised his hand in a mock salute, almost playful as if he were bidding farewell to an old friend rather than sending you into damnation.

That look—that chillingly gleeful expression was imprinted itself in your mind; searing a deep wound of betrayal that would never fully heal.

Your voice caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief as you fell. He hadn’t wavered. Didn't hesitate.

The one who had been your confidante, who had once looked at you with something like love, has casted you down without so much as a flicker of remorse.

Tears escaped and scattered into the wind around you. Just as Heaven faded from sight, darkness fully enveloped you and your world went black.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

You plummet from Heaven like a comet; a streak of searing light tearing through the thick red skies of Hell.

Your form was enveloped in flames as you crashed down with a force that made the very ground tremble.

The impact was like a small explosion—flames erupting, leaving a crater scorched and steaming as debris scattered for yards around.

Slowly you regained consciousness, faint prickles of pain tingling at the edges of your senses.

Your entire body felt heavy. Every inch of your body throbbed with the reminder that you’d been ̶b̶̶e̶̶t̶̶r̶̶a̶̶y̶̶e̶̶d̶ casted down by the very person you trusted most.

Suddenly, you feel warmth pressing against your cheek. You blink, finding yourself face-to-face with a strange malformed creature—a bird if you could call it that.

It had way too many eyes that blinked in eerie unison with a beak far too sharp as it pecked at your face.

You instinctively swat it away with more force than you intended. The creature squawked in protest before flapping its leathery wings and vanishing into the smoky distance.

Looking around you find yourself lying in the center of a deep crater as steam rose from the ground. For a second your mind struggled to reconcile where you were.

Then realization crept in slowly along with a numb sort of disbelief. Hell. You were in Hell.

As you shifted to sit up, soft murmurs above made you snap your head upwards. There on the edges of the crater stood gathering figures— Hell denizens that drawn to the commotion.

Sinners and demons, the curious and wicked souls damned to this place, they all watched you in curiosity.

That is until they caught sight of the faint remaining glow of your halo and pure white wings.

Their gazes turned alarmed before they scattered away in screeches and shrieks, stumbling and tripping over each other in their desperation to flee in the mistaken belief that your arrival was the start of an unexpected purge.

The silence that followed was almost jarring, leaving you alone in the crater as the echoes of their hurried footsteps faded into the distance.

Your body screamed in protest as you slowly rose to your feet.

You try to open your wings in attempt to take flight, but the moment you flexed them, a searing pain flared down your back making you clamp your wings shut with a wince.

It seems flying wasn't an option right now.

With painstaking effort you hobbled toward the crater’s edge, eyes fixed on the steep walls.

Your teeth grit from the pain when you reach out and grasped a jagged piece of rock jutting from the crater wall.

'Okay,' a grim look of determination cross your face. 'Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.'

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

With a weak but firm grip you grasped the edge of the crater, using every last ounce of strength to pull yourself up onto the cracked pavement.

A heaving gasp tore from your throat as you collapsed onto solid ground before scooting yourself away from the crater’s edge.

It had taken longer than you’d hoped, but you’d done it. You were out.

Lying back, you let your head fall against the pavement to stare up at the crimson-tinted sky above.

Clouds churned in dark ominous shades of red as a massive pentagram symbol loomed high above—it glowed sinisterly, slicing through the swirling clouds in sharp precise lines.

Hell’s “moon” hung beside it—a twisted scarred orb that looked as though it had been dragged from the depths of something far darker than night.

And even higher in the distance, just barely visible against the hellish skyline, was the faint shimmer of Heaven’s gate. A cruel and unreachable mirage.

You closed your eyes, letting out a long shuddering breath as you try to gather yourself before reluctantly forcing your exhausted body to move once more.

Just as you managed to stand a strange warmth flickered above your head. Your fingers reach up to touch your now sputtering halo.

The steady glow dimmed as it pulsed weakly—and before you could fully process it, the light extinguished altogether.

The once radiant halo fell and clattered to the ground with a hollow metallic ring.

You stared down at the cold dull metal lying lifelessly in the dust. Your legs buckled and you sank to your knees, reaching out with trembling fingers to pick it up.

The weight of it felt foreign now, devoid of the light and comfort it once radiated.

A sad hollow laugh bubbled up from your throat; a weak attempt to mask the sharp ache of loss.

“...and it was such a good reading light to use,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper.

The familiar warmth of Heaven was gone and replaced by an oppressive heat that clung to you as the air around filled with the bitter scent of sulfur.

The betrayal, the Fall, and now your halo—each piece hammered at your heart, leaving you grasping at the edges of your composure as the weight of this new reality pressed in on you.

Fortunately you didn’t have time to dwell on it for long.

“Hello!” A voice cuts through the stillness.

Startled, you look up to see a young girl standing at the edge of the abandoned street, her bright eyes wide with wonder.

She was small, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she wore a frilly red dress that looked almost too pristine for a place like Hell

She moved before you could process her intentions, darting toward you with surprising speed.

You instinctively opened your arms, catching her as she flinged herself into your embrace with childlike trust.

Her weight was slight with a warmth to her that felt strangely comforting. She nestled against your side, tiny hands exploring your feathers as her eyes sparkled with awe.

“Oh wow!” she squealed, brushing her fingers lightly over the downy feathers of your wings that had unconsciously curled around her as if to shield her from the world. “Your wings are so pretty! They look kinda like my dad’s!”

You blinked, still processing the fact that a child was not only here in Hell but clinging to you like you were an old friend.

Her innocent curiosity and lack of fear threw you off guard. For a moment faint memories of the children you had in your human life resurfaced and a bittersweet warmth filled your chest.

“Who might you be little one?"

The girl looked up at you with a giggle, eyes wide with innocence. "My name's Charlie, Charlie Magne!"

You couldn't help but smile. She reminded you of them in a way—of the tenderness you’d once known.

"And why are you out here alone?” concern was heard in your words. It was dangerous even for a child who clearly belonged here.

“I just wanted to see if it was really an angel causing all the fuss. I overheard my dad talking about it and well...I got curious! So I snuck out and—bam! I found you!” She gave you a triumphant grin as if discovering you were her own special accomplishment.

“Your...dad?” you echo softly causing her to frantically nod.

“Charlotte!” A booming voice calls out sending a shiver down your spine. Charlie looked over her shoulder, her eyes lighting up even more.

“Oh! There he is!” she chirped. Wriggling out of your arms, she hops down and began waving enthusiastically in the direction of the voice. "Over here!”

You quickly got to your feet, bracing yourself as you saw him: Lucifer Morningstar—The King of Hell himself striding down the street with an air of authority.

His softened gaze was locked on Charlie as she ran to him. But the moment she pointed back at you and exclaimed, “Look Daddy! I made a new friend!” his expression shifted.

The smile he’d given her vanished and was replaced by something far darker. In a flash he was in front of you, his crimson eyes piercing through you like twin blades.

You barely blinked before you were slammed to the ground.

The impact stole the air from your lungs, you were left gasping as his weight pressed down on you, a foot planted firmly on your chest.

Charlie's pleads of Daddy stop! seemed distant, almost muffled as you struggled to catch your breath.

'Geez...What s up with this family and tackling?'

Your dry thought is interrupted by the cold bite of metal on your throat. The sharp blade is pressed against the skin of your neck making you give a wide-eye stare up at the man towering over you.

His expression hard and unforgiving with an air of suspicion around him.

"Who sent you to the land of the Damned?"

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novaursa · 25 days ago

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Of Gods and Men (god killer)

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: coventat

- Next part: the path

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sky over Arrakeen was a deep orange, dust from the desert swirling in the air as the winds picked up. The entourage from House Corrino descended from their ships with all the pomp and arrogance expected from the Imperial family. Behind them, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam and several other members of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood followed closely, their expressions masked but sharp. Key members of The Guild walked with a purposeful step, their faces unreadable beneath the shadows of their hoods.

Standing at the forefront, Leto, you, Aenys, Hawat, Gurney, Paul, and Jessica stood with a mixed delegation from House Atreides and Targaryen, their posture tense as they awaited the visitors. The air was thick with animosity, and it took only moments for the strained atmosphere to become palpable.

The Emperor Shaddam IV approached first, his eyes sweeping over the gathered assembly with a practiced air of indifference. But the weight of his arrival wasn’t lost on anyone. This was no casual visit; this was an attempt to salvage his slipping grip on the universe.

With a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Shaddam spoke, his voice ringing out over the wind. "Duke Leto, your continued presence on Arrakis has not gone unnoticed. I believe it's time to ensure the future of the Empire... with an alliance." His gaze flickered to Paul, then back to Leto. "I offer you the hand of my daughter, Irulan, in marriage to your son, Paul. Together, we can secure stability, and your position here on Arrakis will be... acknowledged."

Leto’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his irritation. Before he could respond, Paul spoke up, his voice clear and resolute. "I refuse."

A ripple of surprise passed through the assembled crowd, though the Reverend Mother’s expression remained unreadable. Shaddam’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile. "Refuse? You would reject an Imperial marriage? This is an opportunity to—"

"I said no," Paul cut in, his voice unwavering. "I have no interest in your daughter or your offers."

Leto nodded, stepping forward to back his son. "My son’s decision is final. We will not be part of your schemes, Shaddam. Not now, not ever."

The air grew colder as the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen took a step forward, her piercing gaze landing on Jessica. "You’ve allowed this, Jessica? You’ve let your son and the Duke to ally with... dragonspawn from across the universe, and now you sit idly while another great House is removed from our plans?"

Her words were a thinly veiled insult, but the true jab came when her eyes flickered briefly toward you, who stood quietly beside Leto, visibly pregnant. The weight of the Reverend Mother's disdain was clear, and her implication stung even more sharply.

Leto’s irritation flared into anger. He moved, standing protectively in front of you, his expression dark and filled with warning. "You will not speak to my wife or her family like that ever again. Do you understand?"

The Guild representative, sensing the mounting tension, stepped forward next, his voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of menace. "Duke Leto, your involvement with the Targaryens threatens the flow of spice across the universe. Without it, the Guild cannot operate. The Empire will collapse."

Leto narrowed his eyes at the man. "On the contrary," he said evenly, "the spice has never flowed in such capacity as it does now. Thanks to our combined efforts, production is higher than ever. The Targaryens have helped ensure that. So if your concerns lie with the spice... they are unfounded."

The representative stiffened, but before the conversation could continue, Aenys stepped forward. His presence was commanding, even without the dragons looming in the distance. His cold, calculating gaze landed on Shaddam, and for the first time, the Emperor seemed unsettled.

"You will leave Arrakis," Aenys said, his voice as sharp as the blade of a sword. "You and your lapdogs," he glanced at the Reverend Mother and the Guild representative, "will vacate this planet. And if I see an Imperial frigate inside my space again, it will be shot down on sight."

The silence that followed was deafening. Shaddam’s face flushed with barely concealed fury, but he said nothing. He knew better than to challenge the Dragonlord outright, not when so much power hung in the balance.

The Emperor straightened, turning on his heel without another word, and his entourage followed suit. The air was still thick with unspoken threats as they left, but for now, the battle had been won.

As they walked away, Leto exhaled, turning to look at you, his hand finding yours. The silent solidarity between you both was enough.

The caverns echoed with the rhythmic clink of armor and boots as Feyde-Rautha Harkonnen led his men deeper into the labyrinth beneath the sands of Arrakis. These dark, twisting tunnels had become familiar to him over the past weeks, each incursion pushing further into Targaryen territory. His troops moved with caution, their eyes constantly scanning the shadows, ever wary of a sudden dragon's breath or a Targaryen ambush.

But Feyde had learned something important during their operations: the Targaryens, despite their might and dragons, weren’t invincible. Every push into these caverns yielded more valuable intel. Every hidden nook and cranny they uncovered revealed a little more about the enemy. His men had grown bolder, emboldened by the small victories that came with each excursion.

In the dim glow of their torches, one of his lieutenants approached, his helmet tucked under his arm, eyes sharp with anticipation. "We’ve gathered enough information to draw her out," he said, his voice low but steady. "Daenys. If we push the right buttons, we might just get her on dragonback."

Feyde barely glanced at the man, his eyes focused on the walls of the cavern as though considering every possibility, every outcome. "And the brothers?" he asked, his tone almost disinterested. He was fixated on one target alone—you.

"They’ve been busy consolidating their forces, especially after the failed attack on the Atreides stronghold. But they’re spread thin, focused on the desert infrastructure and maintaining alliances. If we strike at the right moment, we can cut off their support before they realize what’s happening."

Feyde finally turned his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Good. We need to be patient, though." He moved further into the cave, the dark rock reflecting his calm confidence. "Daenys... she’s been reported to be giving birth, hasn't she?"

The lieutenant nodded. "Yes, as we speak. It’s unlikely she’ll engage us anytime soon."

Feyde’s smile grew, dark and calculating. "Then we wait. We’ve been patient this long. What are a few more months?"

His words sent a wave of quiet murmurs through the ranks of his men. The Harkonnens were not known for their patience, but Feyde had always been different. He enjoyed the chase, the slow unraveling of his enemies' weaknesses. And now, with you vulnerable, he felt the thrill of victory closer than ever before.

"Her brothers will be busy handling the Targaryen forces, and she’ll be occupied with the birth." Feyde’s voice dripped with cold certainty. "Which leaves her dragon. Without their full strength behind them, we’ll have our opportunity. But we must strike carefully. If we push too soon, we risk tipping our hand."

The lieutenant nodded, understanding the subtlety of the plan. "So we’ll keep observing. Wait for the perfect moment."

Feyde’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming in the low light of the cavern. "Exactly. Let them think they’re safe. Let them enjoy their moments of triumph. Because when we strike, it’ll be from the shadows, and they’ll never see it coming."

The cavern grew quiet again, save for the faint sounds of Feyde’s men continuing their quiet work. Each step they took, each hidden chamber they mapped, brought them closer to their goal: to draw you out, to capture or kill you, and to send a message to your House that even dragons could be hunted.

Feyde turned back to the darkness ahead, his mind already calculating the next move. "Let her rest," he muttered to himself, more amused than concerned. "We’ll take care of her when the time is right."

For now, patience was their greatest weapon. And Feyde intended to wield it with the precision of a dagger.

The walls of the Arrakeen stronghold hummed with a strange sense of anticipation. Inside, the combined forces of House Atreides and House Targaryen moved with an unspoken purpose, the air thick with the knowledge that something monumental was happening. It wasn’t just another political maneuver or military strategy; this was personal. Deep within the stronghold, you were giving birth.

The room where you lay was a blend of tradition and innovation—Targaryen banners fluttered alongside the Atreides colors, while advanced medical technology hummed alongside ancient Targaryen remedies. Leto stood by your side, his face pale but his grip on your hand steady, as if holding you could anchor him through the storm of emotion that surged within him. The birth of his children—your children—was imminent.

Through the haze of pain, you felt the world narrowing, every breath drawing you closer to the moment that would change everything. It felt both surreal and inevitable, a moment foretold in both your visions and Paul's dreams. Even now, through the intensity of it all, you could sense the connection that bound your House to this moment, to this new life.

The midwives moved around you, their voices calm and steady, guiding you through every wave of pain. Leto whispered words of encouragement, though his voice cracked with the strain of watching you in pain, helpless except for his presence. His fingers brushed your hair from your face, his gaze never leaving yours.

Hours passed, but time lost meaning in the blur of effort and anticipation. And then, at last, the cry. A piercing wail that broke through the tension in the room.

“A boy,” one of the midwives announced, her voice filled with awe.

And then, moments later, another cry—softer, yet no less powerful.

“A girl.”

You leaned back, your body spent but your heart full, as the midwives moved to place the newborns in your arms. Leto, standing by your side, gazed down at them with a look that was equal parts disbelief and pure joy.

“They’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a deep, unspoken love. “What should we name them?”

You watched him, seeing the pride and awe in his expression, and you knew that these names would carry more than just family legacy—they would be the beginning of a new era.

“The boy,” Leto said softly, looking at his son, “Aenor, after both our families.”

He then turned his gaze to your daughter, her tiny fists clenched as she wriggled in your arms. “And for the girl... Rhaelys.”

The names settled over the room like a benediction, their weight both ancient and new. The children squirmed in your arms, already carrying the legacy of two Houses—one born of fire and blood, the other born of dignity and honor.

Suddenly, the doors to the chamber burst open with an energy that could only belong to one person. Aenys, your father, strode in, his usually composed face uncharacteristically lit with excitement. He took in the scene, his gaze immediately finding you and the twins in your arms. His eyes softened in a way that few had ever seen.

“Grandchildren,” he breathed, his voice carrying the awe of a man who had seen much but never this. “My first.”

You watched as the great Dragonlord, the warrior who had led your House through exile and war, approached with a reverence you had never seen from him before. He knelt beside the bed, his fingers brushing the soft heads of Aenor and Rhaelys with a gentleness that was almost startling.

“You’ve given me the future of our House,” Aenys said, his voice low, meant for your ears and Leto’s. “And they will carry both the blood of the dragon and the strength of House Atreides.”

Leto smiled at your father, though he still looked slightly stunned by everything happening so quickly. “They will be raised to honor both our legacies.”

Aenys met Leto’s gaze, and for a brief moment, the two men—once strangers from different worlds—shared an unspoken understanding. They were bound now, not just by an alliance, but by blood, by family.

For a moment, all the political intrigue, all the looming threats from Harkonnen and the Empire, faded into the background. In this room, in this moment, there was only joy.

As the door to the chamber opened again softly, Paul stepped inside, his movements hesitant at first, as if unsure he was ready to confront the reality of his dreams. He had seen them—your children—in countless dreams and visions, both as siblings and as something entirely different in other paths that might have been. This moment, though, felt like a convergence of everything he had seen and everything he hadn’t yet understood.

He approached slowly, his eyes drawn immediately to the newborns resting in your arms, their small forms swaddled in the deep silks of both House Targaryen and House Atreides. Leto, still at your side, noticed Paul and gave him a quiet nod of acknowledgment. Aenys, standing tall but calm beside you, watched Paul with a knowing look, recognizing the deeper forces at play.

“They are perfect,” Paul said, his voice barely a whisper, though it carried the weight of his vision. He stepped closer to you, his eyes scanning the tiny faces of his brother and sister. The boy, Aenor, had a shock of silver hair, pale like the moon over Arrakis, and his lilac eyes already opened, gazing with a strange awareness that mirrored your own. The girl, Rhaelys, had a softer expression, her own eyes closed but her features delicate, bearing a gentleness beneath the strength of her bloodline.

Paul couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu. He had dreamed of them long before now, but in some dreams, they weren’t just his siblings. They were... something more. A different path. A different destiny. In those visions, they had worn the marks of power, rulers in their own right, shaping the course of history in ways he could barely comprehend. But here and now, they were simply his family. And yet, the weight of what they might become lingered in the air, as if the future was still waiting to unfold in ways none of them could fully grasp.

Paul crouched slightly, meeting Aenor’s steady gaze. The boy blinked, as if studying him in return, and Paul felt a chill run through him. “I saw you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “In a future that never came.”

You tilted your head, watching Paul carefully. “What did you see?”

Paul swallowed, unsure how to explain the tangled web of visions that had haunted him for so long. “I saw them as something else. Rulers... or maybe warriors. They were powerful in ways I didn’t understand. And in those dreams, I wasn’t their brother. I was something else. An ally, maybe. Or a rival. It was unclear.”

You nodded, a soft understanding passing between you both. You, too, had seen pieces of those possible futures in your own dragon dreams, fleeting images that seemed to tug at the edges of your consciousness. But here, in this moment, the reality felt far more grounded.

“They are our future now,” you said quietly, shifting slightly to adjust the swaddle around Rhaelys, whose tiny fist had poked out, waving gently in the air. “Whatever paths were before, this is the one we’ve chosen.”

Paul glanced at you, his expression softening. “I hope you’re right.”

Aenys, standing behind you, cleared his throat, his booming voice breaking the quiet moment. “You were meant to be here, Paul,” he said, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “To witness this. To know that your dreams may show many paths, but the choice is always yours.”

Paul straightened, his eyes lingering on the twins a moment longer before he looked to his father, Leto, and then back at you. “I hope they find strength in the legacy we’re building,” he said finally, stepping back slightly to give you space.

Leto’s hand brushed yours again, the gesture gentle, as if grounding you both in the present. Whatever the future held, whatever dreams or visions haunted them all, this was a moment of peace. A new generation had been born, and for now, that was enough.

In the stronghold’s bustling halls, preparations were well underway for a modest celebration in honor of the birth of Leto and your twins. It had been decided that the gathering would be small but significant—just enough to mark the occasion without overwhelming the household. Gurney Halleck had taken it upon himself to lighten the Duke's load, and alongside Vaegor and Duncan Idaho, he moved through the stronghold like a man on a mission. There was laughter, hurried work, and Gurney’s gruff voice could be heard giving orders, his own way of making sure everything was perfect for Leto and you.

“C’mon, Duncan, a bit more care with those banners. We’re not Harkonnens throwing some slapdash party,” Gurney said, shaking his head as Duncan adjusted a hanging cloth bearing the colors of House Atreides.

Duncan chuckled, always enjoying Gurney’s particular brand of leadership. “And here I thought we were aiming for subtle, not grand.”

“Subtle, yes,” Vaegor muttered as he checked the seating arrangements, his sharp eyes scanning every corner of the hall. “But we are still Targaryens, and nothing is done without purpose.”

As they continued preparing, Thufir Hawat stood a short distance away, overseeing the security measures with his usual hawk-like intensity. His focus shifted, however, when he spotted Jessica standing in the corner of the room, her face tight, watching the preparations with an unreadable expression. He hesitated only a moment before making his way over to her.

"Lady Jessica," Hawat greeted, his tone respectful but firm. "This birth... it changes things, doesn’t it?"

Jessica’s gaze didn’t shift from the preparations. “Changes? It solidifies things, Hawat. The twins are a sign that the path Leto has chosen is... complete.” Her voice carried a heavy weight of resignation.

Hawat’s eyes narrowed. "A path forever severed from the Sisterhood’s grip. The blood of the dragon now runs through House Atreides, and there will be no turning back. No more Bene Gesserit manipulations, no more whispered futures for next Atredies Dukes to follow.”

Jessica turned toward him, her face calm, but her eyes betrayed the storm within. “You think I don’t know that? The Sisterhood will make me suffer for my failure, Hawat. They will see it as a betrayal of the highest order. I was supposed to be their instrument, their key to controlling this House and securing their plans for the future. And I failed.”

Hawat’s face softened, though only slightly. “The Duke made his choice, Jessica. And you know, deep down, it was his to make. The Sisterhood tried to guide him, but they didn’t account for the will of the Targaryens. Or for your son.”

Jessica’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. “It’s not just me who will suffer. The Duke... Leto, he will pay a price too. One that may come from forces even he doesn’t see coming. The Emperor is watching. The Guild is waiting. And the Sisterhood... they will not forget.”

Hawat glanced back toward the preparations for the celebration, the laughter and lightness of the moment starkly contrasting the conversation. "Leto is prepared for the consequences of his actions. He knows the stakes. And if the Targaryens have taught us anything, it’s that survival sometimes means cutting ties with old masters."

Jessica gave a small, bitter laugh. “You speak as if survival is something guaranteed. But the Sisterhood... they have long memories. And they’ll find a way to make sure the Atreides pay for defying them.”

Hawat turned his sharp gaze on her. "That’s where you’re wrong. The Atreides are no longer under their control. Leto has forged a new alliance, one with blood as strong as the Bene Gesserit’s... perhaps even stronger. Whatever retribution the Sisterhood plans, it’ll be met with the strength of two Houses. The Atreides will survive."

Jessica didn’t respond, but her silence was telling. Hawat could see the resignation in her posture, the realization that her place in this House, in Leto’s life, was slipping further away. As the preparations continued around them, it was clear that the twins’ birth wasn’t just a celebration of new life—it was a sign of a new era. One where the influence of the Sisterhood had no place.

And as Hawat turned back to the gathering, a quiet determination settled in him. The Duke had made his choice, and it was one that would shape the future of House Atreides. Whether the Bene Gesserit liked it or not.

The nursery within Arrakeen’s stronghold was quiet, a rare moment of peace after the whirlwind of the past few weeks. The soft coos of the newborn twins filled the room as you sat by their cribs, watching over them with a serene expression. The sunlight filtered in through the windows, casting a gentle glow over the scene.

The twins, Aenor and Rhaelys, lay bundled in silks, their small bodies nestled comfortably. You had been there for hours, unwilling to leave their side. There was something calming about their presence, a reminder that even amidst the chaos of politics and war, life went on.

The door creaked open softly, and Leto stepped into the room, his presence both comforting and curious. He paused for a moment, taking in the scene before him. There you were, sitting with your children, the embodiment of the union that had changed the course of his life—and his House—forever.

But it wasn’t just the sight of you and the twins that caught his attention. His eyes widened slightly as he noticed something unusual in the cribs.

Two large, smooth dragon eggs rested beside the children, their surfaces shimmering with a faint inner glow. These were not like the egg you had gifted him on Arctis—no, these were different. They pulsed with a quiet energy, a warmth that radiated from within. They were alive.

Leto moved closer, his gaze locked on the eggs. "These... they’re not stones," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "They’re viable."

You looked up at him, a small smile playing on your lips as you nodded. "Yes, they are."

Leto crouched beside the cribs, reaching out hesitantly to touch one of the eggs. It was warm to the touch, a steady pulse of life beneath the surface. The realization hit him slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in. These were no mere ornaments—these were the future. Dragons, like the ones of old Valyria.

"Your father left these, didn’t he?" Leto asked, though he already knew the answer.

You nodded again, your gaze soft as you watched the twins sleep beside their eggs. "It’s the custom of our House. A gift to the next generation. My father... he wanted them to have something of our legacy."

Leto exhaled, the magnitude of it all washing over him. "Your father... never does anything without purpose."

A chuckle escaped your lips. "No, he doesn’t. But this—this is tradition. It’s how we ensure our bloodline remains tied to the dragons. And now, Aenor and Rhaelys will have a connection to them, too."

Leto rose to his feet, his eyes not leaving the eggs. The implications were staggering. He had known that by marrying into your House, his children would carry the blood of the dragon. But this—this was something more tangible. More real. The prospect of dragons flying once more, born from his own offspring, filled him with a strange mix of pride and awe.

"It’s incredible," he said softly, turning to look at you. "I never thought... that I’d see dragons reborn, let alone through my own children."

You smiled, a warmth in your eyes that mirrored the life within the eggs. "They are part of both of us now, Leto. Both Atreides and Targaryen. And they will shape the future of our Houses."

He reached out, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. "I wonder if they’ll ever know the weight of the legacy they carry."

"They will," you said quietly. "But for now, they are just children. Let them be that for a little while longer."

Leto nodded, though the gravity of the future still lingered in his mind. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his hand never leaving yours. "You’re right. Let them be children."

As the two of you stood together, watching over your sleeping twins and the dragon eggs beside them, there was a sense of peace in the room. A quiet understanding that, whatever came next, your children would inherit something far greater than titles or power. They would inherit the fire and blood of two great Houses.

And with that, the future—though uncertain—felt a little more secure.

Four months had passed since the birth of your twins, and though you had spent much of that time in relative peace with them and Leto, the call of duty had never fully left your mind. Now, as you stood overlooking the expanse of the deep desert, your thoughts shifted to more pressing matters. The Harkonnen forces had been a constant thorn in your side, their antagonistic movements near the borders of the Targaryen base growing bolder by the day.

Your brother, Maelor, stood beside you, his face drawn in concentration as he debriefed you on the current situation. “They’ve been probing our defenses for weeks now,” he said, his tone sharp with frustration. “It’s clear they’re trying to find a weakness, and with the Atreides dealing with their own skirmishes, it’s become harder to hold them off.”

You frowned, your eyes narrowing as you looked out at the horizon, where the enemy forces gathered just beyond sight. It was time to act. “We’ll engage them head-on,” you said, your voice steady with resolve. “I’ll take Vexiae and lead a strike from the air on one front. You and the Atreides can take them from the other.”

Maelor nodded, though there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “You’re sure you’re ready? It’s only been a few months since…”

“I’m ready,” you interrupted, your gaze hardening. “Our enemies won’t wait for us to be prepared, and neither will I. It’s time to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

Without another word, you turned on your heel, making your way toward the hangar where Vexiae was being prepared. Your dragon had been restless in the past months, sensing your absence from battle, and now it was time to unleash her once more. The attendants were already busy armoring the great beast, her deep red scales gleaming under the desert sun, and the black battle plating fitted perfectly over her wings and chest.

You donned your own battle attire, each piece of armor clicking into place with a precision that felt like second nature. The weight of your sword at your hip was a familiar comfort, and the feeling of purpose settled into your bones as the wind whipped through the base.

As you approached Vexiae, the dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, her fiery eyes locking onto yours. There was a shared understanding between you and the creature—this was what you were meant for. Battle. Leadership. Victory.

Mounting Vexiae, you took a moment to adjust the reins, feeling the powerful muscles beneath you coil in anticipation. Your dragon was ready, and so were you.

“Maelor,” you called down to your brother, who was giving final orders to his troops. “Once we start the assault, I expect you to crush them from the ground. We’ll meet in the center.”

He looked up, giving you a firm nod. “Don’t get too far ahead of us.”

With a final glance back at the base, you clicked your heels against Vexiae’s sides, and with a mighty roar, the dragon leaped into the sky, her wings spreading wide as you soared into the air. The wind whipped against your face, but you felt nothing but focus. The Harkonnens wouldn’t know what hit them.

As you flew over the expanse of the desert, the enemy forces came into view, their encampments scattered across the sand like dark blots against the endless dunes. Vexiae let out a roar that echoed across the landscape, her breath steaming in the cold desert air. The Harkonnen soldiers below turned their heads skyward, panic already beginning to spread as they saw the dragon descending upon them.

Good. Let them fear.

You pulled on the reins, guiding Vexiae into a sharp dive, her armored form cutting through the air like a blade. The moment before impact, you pulled up, sending a torrent of dragonfire down onto the soldiers below. The screams of the Harkonnens filled the air as their front lines were consumed in flames, and the chaos of battle began in earnest.

With Vexiae circling above, you directed her strikes with precision, setting fire to their weapons caches and burning through their defenses. On the horizon, you saw Maelor’s forces advancing, the Atreides banners flying high as they charged the enemy from the opposite side.

This was only the beginning. Today, you would remind the Harkonnens and the entire universe that House Targaryen was not to be trifled with.

And they would burn.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen stood at the edge of the battle, watching with cruel satisfaction as his forces engaged in a desperate clash against the Targaryen and Atreides troops. His eyes, however, were fixed on the sky, where your dragon, Vexiae, soared through the air with deadly grace, scorching the ground beneath with fire.

Ever since Arctis, since that cold, humiliating day when you had bested him, Feyd had been waiting for this moment. The moment he could bring you and your dragon down, erase the memory of that defeat, and claim the ultimate prize. And today, he had the means to do it.

The Harkonnen weapon—heavy artillery tanks outfitted with specialized targeting systems—were ready. These machines were designed for one purpose: to take down a dragon, even one cloaked from typical radar systems. The technology had cost more than a few lives in experimentation, but now, in this moment, it was all worth it.

“Prepare the artillery,” Feyd ordered, his voice laced with anticipation. He could barely contain the excitement that thrummed through him. “And fire when ready. Let’s clip that beast’s wings.”

His men rushed to follow his command, the whirr of machinery filling the air as the massive artillery guns locked onto Vexiae. It was a weapon designed to track through the Targaryen radar cloaking—a rare find, one they had kept hidden for this very moment. A cruel smile spread across Feyd’s face as he watched the targeting system lock onto you and your dragon.

“Fire!” he commanded, and the ground beneath him shook with the force of the artillery shell being launched.

You were in the midst of a turn, guiding Vexiae for another strike when the first shell hit. It slammed into the dragon’s side with terrifying force, sending you both spinning through the sky. The impact jarred you violently, and you struggled to regain control, but the second shell followed just seconds later, this time hitting one of Vexiae’s wings.

The dragon let out a piercing roar of pain as her wings folded beneath her, and together, you plummeted toward the ground. The wind whipped past your face, and the world spun in a dizzying blur of sand and sky.

Feyd’s laughter echoed across the battlefield as he watched you and Vexiae crash into the sand below. The impact sent a cloud of dust and debris rising into the air, and for a moment, everything was silent.

Slowly, the cloud of sand began to settle, revealing the scene below. Vexiae lay crumpled on the ground, one wing broken and twisted, her body barely moving as she struggled for breath. You were beside her, motionless at first, before a pained groan escaped your lips. You were alive, but barely.

Feyd moved forward, his steps deliberate and slow, savoring every moment as he approached. He had waited for this. Every night since Arctis, he had dreamed of this.

He stood over you now, his shadow falling across your broken form, and for a moment, he simply looked down at you, his expression a mix of glee and triumph.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “The great Targaryen dragonrider, brought down at last. How poetic.”

You groaned again, trying to move, to reach for something—anything—but your body was weak, your strength nearly spent. Vexiae stirred beside you, her fiery eyes still glowing with the embers of life, but she, too, was gravely wounded.

Feyd crouched down, close enough that you could see the twisted smile on his face. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time,” he said softly, his voice filled with malice. “Ever since you humiliated me on Arctis. But now, you’ll pay for that.”

His hand reached for the blade at his belt, and as he drew it, the sunlight gleamed off the cold steel. He held it up, admiring it for a moment before turning his gaze back to you.

“I think I’ll take my time,” he whispered, his voice low and venomous. “Make sure you feel every bit of what’s coming.”

His men gathered behind him, watching with eager anticipation as their leader prepared to finish what he had started. The Harkonnen forces had triumphed here today, and now, they would claim their victory by ending you and your dragon.

But even in your weakened state, something inside you stirred—a flicker of defiance, a refusal to give in. This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. Not yet.

Feyd’s blade hovered above you, and he smiled once more, savoring the moment.

“Goodbye, Targaryen.”

Hawat stood silently before Duke Leto in the war room, his face unusually grim. The atmosphere was heavy, and Leto could sense that whatever news Hawat had brought was nothing short of catastrophic. Without waiting for the formalities, the old Mentat spoke.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice low, “we’ve just received word from our scouts. The Lady Daenys… she and Vexiae were struck down. The Harkonnens... they had a weapon. A heavy artillery tank designed to target her dragon.”

The words hit Leto like a blow to the chest. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His vision blurred with a mix of rage and fear, his heart pounding in his ears. Daenys. His wife. The mother of his children. The one he had sworn to protect. Gone? No. Not gone. She couldn’t be.

“How bad is it?” Leto forced out, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

“Maelor’s forces are already en route,” Hawat replied. “The last we heard, Lady Daenys and the dragon were alive, but barely. The Harkonnens captured them. If we move now, we may still reach them before... before anything worse happens.”

Leto didn’t need to hear anything else. He straightened, all trace of the emotional blow vanishing from his face as the cold, calculating commander in him took over. He turned to his men, already gathering in response to the shift in his demeanor.

“Prepare the Ornithopters,” he ordered, his voice sharp. “We leave immediately.”

Gurney and Duncan exchanged quick glances before nodding and moving to carry out the Duke’s orders. Leto turned back to Hawat, who was already plotting their course. Every second felt like a dagger twisting in his gut. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not to the Harkonnens.

“Gather all available troops,” Leto continued. “I want a full strike force. We will retrieve her. And if the Harkonnens have done anything... anything...”

His voice trailed off, but the meaning was clear. The air in the room was charged with tension as everyone moved with purpose. Leto’s mind raced, filled with images of Daenys—her laughter, her strength, the way she had looked at him the last time they spoke. He couldn’t let that be their final moment together.

Soon enough, the Ornithopters were ready, engines humming and wings twitching as they prepared to take flight. Leto climbed into the pilot’s seat of his own craft, the familiar feel of the controls in his hands grounding him, giving him a focus amidst the storm of emotions threatening to engulf him.

“Ornithopters ready,” Hawat said from his seat beside Leto. “Maelor and his forces have already engaged Harkonnen forces on the ground. We’ll arrive in time to support them.”

Leto nodded, his jaw tight. He refused to acknowledge the worst possibilities that lurked at the edges of his mind. All that mattered now was reaching you. Saving you. Bringing you back.

The Ornithopters lifted into the sky, slicing through the night air. The wind whipped around them, but Leto’s focus was unshakable. His eyes were locked on the horizon, where you were. Where the battle raged.

And where he would bring you back, no matter the cost.

Leto’s Ornithopter descended swiftly, the dust and sand swirling around the landing zone. His heart raced, each beat a dull thud in his chest. As the craft touched down, Leto was out of his seat before it fully settled, his boots hitting the ground hard. The scene before him was chaotic, and the signs of battle were all too clear—charred earth, shattered machinery, and the remnants of fierce combat. But there was one thing missing.

You.

Maelor approached him quickly, his face grim but composed. His Targaryen troops were scattered, securing the perimeter, while others sifted through the debris. Leto could see it in his eyes before the words even came.

“She’s not here,” Maelor said, his voice tense. “We’ve searched the area. There are signs of the fall, signs of her dragon, but they’re gone.”

Leto felt his chest tighten, as if the very air had been pulled from his lungs. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

Maelor glanced around the battlefield, his frustration barely masked. “There was a fight. Vexiae landed hard—there are scorch marks from her breath, the Harkonnens were retreating... but they took her, Leto. They took my sister.”

The Duke’s heart sank deeper. His gaze swept over the battlefield, hoping, praying for something—anything—to tell him you were still near. But all he saw were the remnants of the battle. The scorch marks, the disturbed sand, even the faint impressions where Vexiae had struggled to stand. But no you. No dragon.

“Where’s Aelor?” Leto asked, his voice strained, trying to keep his focus.

“Busy on another front,” Maelor replied, his own frustration palpable. “He’s dealing with a Harkonnen push near the southern ridge. I was sent here... but I never expected this.”

Leto clenched his fists, trying to fight off the rising tide of anger and panic. “So they took her. Alive.”

Maelor nodded, his jaw tight. “They must have. There’s no sign of her body, and they wouldn’t leave something like that behind. They want her alive, for now.”

The weight of those words settled over Leto like a crushing force. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning the area once more, looking for any sign, any clue that could lead them to you.

“The Harkonnens... they’ll pay for this,” Leto said, his voice low and deadly. “But first, we need to find her. We need to get her back.”

Maelor’s expression softened slightly, a rare moment of shared determination. “We will,” he said quietly. “I’ll not rest until she’s safe.”

The Duke’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which could be answered here. He had to think clearly, to strategize. You were out there somewhere, and he couldn’t let his fear paralyze him.

“We’ll split our forces,” Leto ordered, his voice steadying. “You continue the search on the ground. I’ll cover the skies. We’ll find her, Maelor. We have to.”

Maelor nodded, already moving to rally his troops. Leto turned back toward his Ornithopter, his jaw set with determination. His mind was filled with the image of you—your fierce spirit, your warmth, the way you’d looked at him just days ago.

He couldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t.

As he climbed back into the pilot’s seat, Leto cast one last glance at the battlefield, at the place where you’d fallen. There were no answers here. But he would find them. He would find you.

...

Feyd's blade hung in the air, poised for the final strike, but then he hesitated, his twisted smile morphing into something more calculating. He took a step back, lowering the blade as an idea flickered in his mind, sharper and more sinister than any weapon.

“No,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with malice. "Killing you would be far too easy."

You were barely conscious, the world spinning in and out of focus as pain throbbed through your body. Vexiae groaned beside you, her labored breaths heavy in the silence. But even through the haze, you could feel the shift in Feyd’s demeanor, the sudden decision that had stayed his hand.

He turned to his men, who had gathered nearby, watching their leader with eager anticipation. "Secure them both," he ordered, gesturing at you and the dragon with a flick of his wrist. "We’ll transport them back to base. I want them alive."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the Harkonnen troops. They had expected blood, a swift and brutal execution. But none dared to question Feyd. His command was law, and they moved quickly to obey.

Hands grabbed at you, rough and unrelenting, as they lifted your limp form from the ground. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest, but you had no strength left to resist. Vexiae, too wounded to fight back, let out a weak growl as chains were wrapped around her massive body, binding her wings and legs.

Feyd watched with a sickening grin as his men worked. "I’ve waited too long for this moment," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. "You’ll be more useful to me alive, I think. I have... plans."

You were dragged toward a waiting transport, your vision fading in and out, but you caught snippets of conversation as the Harkonnen soldiers moved quickly to secure both you and your dragon.

"Careful with her," one of them muttered. "She's worth more than all of you combined."

Feyd stepped closer to where you were being loaded into the transport, crouching down to look into your face. His eyes glittered with a cruel satisfaction. "You’ll be coming with me," he said, his voice low and venomous. "And when we get back to base, I’ll make sure you see just how thoroughly you’ve lost."

You could barely make sense of his words, the pain clouding your thoughts, but one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to kill you. Not yet.

As they chained you down inside the transport, your mind drifted in and out of consciousness. You thought of Leto, of Aelor, of your children. Of what would happen to them if you didn’t escape. But escape seemed impossible now. Everything hurt. Everything felt so far away.

Feyd stood at the entrance of the transport, watching you with that same calculating gaze. "We’ll see just how much the dragonspawn is willing to suffer," he said quietly, almost to himself. "And what secrets you might hold."

The door to the transport slammed shut, sealing you inside as the engines roared to life. The last thing you heard before the world went dark was the distant growl of Vexiae, still fighting for you, even in her weakened state.

But for now, you were at Feyd's mercy—and whatever twisted plans he had in store.

27 notes · View notes

altocat · 1 day ago

Note

AU where Sephiroth was the one to enact Angeal’s suicide and as Angeal draws his last breaths he asks Sephiroth to become twice the hero to fill the space he leaves behind

Noble words from Angeal, but there is no doubt in my mind that if Sephiroth was present to assist, it would have broken him. Not Nibelheim-broken. Will to live-broken. It's just Rosen all over again. And once again, Sephiroth is completely alone. How can he be a hero? How can such... murderous filth ever live up to Angeal's legacy? He's not a hero. He's just a killer. There is blood on his hands. He is nothing. He deserves nothing.

Fate works in mysterious ways though. The shock of killing Angeal brings about certain ripple effects. Sephiroth never goes to Nibelheim because he refuses to leave his room. Zack, upon hearing that Shinra plans to euthanize Sephiroth now that he is no longer functional or of any use to them, makes a big gamble and gives Sephiroth the opportunity to escape, failing to "eliminate" him just as he did for Angeal and Genesis. Thus, Sephiroth eventually fulfills dying wish not in becoming a hero under Shinra's label...

...but by eventually becoming a hero on his own, finally set loose in the outside world.

He has a long journey ahead of him.

#ff7 #asks #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephcanons #crisis core #sephiroth #angeal hewley #zack fair #Au #final fantasy vii

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k-didathing · 1 month ago

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Startober Day 2: Legacy

Gem was a sword fighter. She was a rather good one too, taking on some of the best in the galaxy. She often competed in tournaments for money, or took on the occasional bounty when money was sparse. It wasn’t an honest living, but at least it paid the bills. But one of the consequences of not having an honest living is one tends to get involved with some… shady figures. And several of these shady figures seemed to take an interest in Gem. She had made a deal with them for more money than she had ever won from any other job, but things didn’t exactly go as planned. And that was why Gem’s right arm now appeared to be made of the void itself, its inky swirls crawling up her harm and embedding themselves into her skin.

Gem gripped her sword in her left hand, slashing with all the coordination she could muster. The fighting simulation bot (nicknamed Sunny by her roommate) attacked in turn in that same predictable pattern that Gem should have mastered at this point. But with her left hand, Gem’s coordination was sloppy at best.

She tried to parry, but her form was off.

Wham!

She tried to stab, but she didn’t keep her guard up.

Wham!

Sunny had its sword pointed at Gem’s chest, then it returned to a neutral position. “Better luck next time,” It said in its robotic voice.

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Gem sighed, setting down her sword and grabbing a quick drink of water. After a moment, Gem found herself staring intently at her sword, lying motionless on the ground beside her. Things had gone downhill ever since she had made that deal with those mysterious entities. Now that her right arm was pretty much useless, her days of tournament competitions were long over. The money that the entities had given her helped a little, but it was starting to dwindle. Soon enough, she wouldn’t be able to pay her half of the rent, and then what would happen?

Even though she knew it wouldn’t work, she tried to pick up her sword with her right hand. But no matter how much she strained, her arm couldn’t bear the sword’s weight, and it would slip right out of her hand. She just sighed and picked up the sword with her left hand, priming Sunny back up for another round.

Parry.

Wham!

Stab.

Wham!

Survive. Survive. Survive.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Eventually, Gem ran out of patience. She threw caution to the wind and swung wildly with her right arm, aiming directly for Sunny’s head.

(Did she notice how the surface of her arm rippled and swirled, its inky surface spiraling out like tendrils? Did she notice how it sparkled like it had been embedded with stars?)

Gem barely felt the impact of the punch, but the aftermath was abysmal. She had utterly demolished Sunny, leaving a massive crater in the side of its head. She looked at her right hand in astonishment, and noticed that a second, phantom-like hand, much larger than her own, surrounded her arm.

“Gem? Whatcha-” Pearl stopped in her tracks a few feet from the door, witnessing the damage Gem had done.

“Oh, hey, Pearl!” Gem said, trying to divert Pearl’s attention. “How’s the search for your friend going?”

“Still no leads yet. But I see that you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah… sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me, to be honest.”

“That’s fine! I can fix Sunny later. Though I’m not sure what I’m gonna tell Sausage…”

Gem glanced at her arm again. The phantom arm was gone, and the tiny sparkles were beginning to dim. She wasn’t sure if her sword fighting skills would ever be the same again, but maybe something new was in store for her.

Maybe she would be okay.

(Au by @skimmeh and @kairamuwu)

#Thank y'all so much for all the positive responses so far!#startober2024 #stareater au #geminitay #pearlescentmoon #again I really appreciate it

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marauder-verse · 1 month ago

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‘‘Twas Always Thus and Always Thus Shall Be (I)

Ship: Wolfstar (Sirius Black x Remus Lupin)

Next Chapter

Muggle/Dead Poets Society AU

Summary: “but only in their dreams can men be truly free. 'twas always thus and always thus will be.”

Amidst the ancient stone halls of Hogwarts Academy, the air buzzes with excitement and anticipation as students gather for the annual convocation. Sixteen-year-old Remus Lupin stands on the cusp of a new chapter, feeling the weight of tradition and expectation pressing down on him. As a transfer student from Beauxbatons, he grapples with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, unsure if he belongs among the legacy of illustrious families like the Potters and Blacks.

While Remus strives to find his place, Sirius Black wrestles with the demands of a mother who insists on controlling his every choice, forcing him into a mold he struggles to break free from. Their paths intertwine in a turbulent whirlwind of friendship, loyalty, and the pressure to uphold family names. As they navigate the complexities of school life, the budding dynamics between them and their peers reveal the struggles of adolescence—balancing ambition with identity, and the quest for acceptance amidst the shadows of their families' expectations.

Inside the towering stone hall of Hogwarts Academy, nestled deep within the misty, craggy Highlands of Scotland, more than three hundred students sat in anticipation. Their academy blazers gleamed in the flickering candlelight, the crest on their chests catching the soft glow. On either side of the long aisle, parents sat with pride etched on their faces, their gazes fixed ahead, but occasionally flicking over their children as they adjusted their blazers, smoothed their hair, and tried to quiet their excited whispers. A hushed reverence filled the room, punctuated only by the soft rustle of robes and the creak of the ancient wooden pews.

The distant, haunting call of bagpipes began to echo through the stone walls, the sound resonating off the high arched ceilings. It was a melody that spoke of tradition and history, a tune that seemed to rise from the very heart of the Scottish landscape outside. All eyes turned as a short, elderly man, swathed in voluminous, flowing robes of deep burgundy, appeared at the entrance of the hall. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he lit a tall candle, its flame flickering before him like a beacon. With measured steps, he led a solemn procession of students carrying banners, their faces set in expressions of grave importance, followed closely by robed teachers and distinguished alumnae.

The procession moved down the long, slate-tiled hallway, their footsteps echoing faintly in time with the music. The four banner bearers, each a boy dressed in ceremonial robes, marched with deliberate precision, their banners catching the light. They approached the grand dais at the front of the chapel, where Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stood, his tall, thin frame seeming to command the room effortlessly. His long silver hair flowed down to his shoulders, and his matching beard glinted faintly in the candlelight as he watched the approaching students with a look of deep contemplation.

The elderly man with the candle reached the dais last, moving with the slow dignity of age. The room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the rhythmic steps of the lone bagpiper, who now stood at attention in the corner, still playing softly. The banner carriers marched solemnly to their places, lowering their flags in unison. The banners, emblazoned with bold letters reading:

“Tradition,” “Honor,” “Discipline,” and “Excellence,” fluttered for a moment before the boys took their seats quietly among the audience.

Dumbledore, his voice rich and steady, spoke with dramatic flair. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," he intoned, his eyes sweeping across the gathered crowd before pointing toward the man holding the candle. "The light of knowledge."

A soft ripple of polite applause followed as the elderly gentleman, his back straightened with pride, stepped forward, raising the candle higher. The flames reflected in the eyes of the students seated in the front rows, their faces glowing in awe as they watched him approach. One by one, the younger students held out their unlit candles, waiting breathlessly for the sacred flame to be passed.

Dumbledore stepped forward, his tall frame bending slightly as he took the candle from the elderly man and lit the first student's candle. The small flicker of light seemed to take on a life of its own, casting a warm golden glow over the boy's wide-eyed face as he stared at the flame in wonder. The flame was passed along the row, each student delicately tipping their candle to the next, creating a slow-moving wave of light that spread through the room, soft and glowing, like a gentle breeze stirring the air.

"The light of knowledge," Dumbledore continued solemnly, his voice resonating through the hall, "shall be passed from generation to generation." His words hung in the air as the audience watched the flames spread, the atmosphere heavy with reverence.

As the last candle was lit, Dumbledore straightened, his gaze sweeping over the rows of students and alumni alike.

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed alumni, and students," he began, his tone shifting to one of anticipation, "this year, 1976, marks the fourth centennial of Hogwarts Academy’s founding. Four hundred years ago, in 1576, students just like you sat where you sit now, listening to these very same words."

He paused, letting the weight of tradition and history sink into the room, the silence amplifying the tension as the students sat rigidly in their seats, eager but anxious. Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed with an almost playful light as he glanced over the crowd, his voice booming as he asked the question they had been waiting for.

"What are the four pillars?" he thundered, the sound reverberating through the stone walls, jolting the students to attention.

Chairs scraped against the stone floor as students scrambled to stand, their polished shoes squeaking slightly in their haste. Sixteen-year-old Remus Lupin hesitated for a fraction of a second, his heart pounding in his chest. Unlike his classmates, he wasn’t wearing the academy’s pristine uniform. His clothes were slightly scruffy, his worn blazer a size too large, his shoes a little scuffed, and his tie slightly askew. He could feel the weight of expectations all around him, not just from his peers, but from his mother, who sat nearby with a gentle, encouraging smile, giving him the slightest nudge to rise.

Remus swallowed hard, his face tight with a mixture of determination and nerves. His hands, hidden in his pockets, clenched into fists as he stood. The hall seemed to blur around him for a moment, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the ancient stone walls. He felt out of place, a misfit in a room full of polished, poised students, yet here he was, standing among them, the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on him.

With a mix of frustration and uncertainty swirling inside him, Remus Lupin stood frozen, his fingers gripping the edges of his seat infront of him. Around him, the sharp, rehearsed voices of his classmates rang out in unison, slicing through the heavy silence that clung to him:

"Tradition! Honor! Discipline! Excellence!"

The words reverberated through the hall, each syllable delivered with a confidence that only deepened the knot of discomfort in his chest. Remus remained quiet, feeling the collective force of the response press in on him. The sound of the others’ voices was almost deafening in comparison to his own silence.

Headmaster Dumbledore, standing tall and dignified at the podium, nodded approvingly at the chorus of responses. The students sank back into their seats, the brief squeaking of chairs echoing through the grand stone hall. Then, the silence returned, thicker now, laced with a solemn weight that made the air feel heavier, more suffocating.

Dumbledore’s voice, amplified by the microphone, filled the room once more. "In Hogwarts’ first year," he began, his voice rich and commanding, "only five students graduated." He let the statement hang in the air for a moment, the contrast almost tangible as the room seemed to pause with him. "Last year," he continued, his voice taking on a proud note, "we graduated fifty-one students. And over seventy-five percent of them were accepted into Ivy League schools."

A wave of applause swept through the room, reverberating off the stone walls. Parents, seated alongside their children, beamed with pride, their faces aglow with satisfaction. Among them, sixteen-year-old James Potter sat with his signature curly hair and a confident grin spread across his face, clapping alongside his parents and friends. Next to him, Marlene McKinnon, also dressed in the crisp, navy blue academy blazer, exchanged a proud glance with James, her lips curving into a smile that mirrored his own. Together, they embodied the perfect picture of Ivy League aspirations, their futures seemingly bright and assured.

Dumbledore’s voice rose above the applause as it gradually faded. "This level of success," he continued, his gaze sweeping the room as James and Marlene shared a knowing glance, "is the result of unwavering dedication to the values we uphold here. It is why Hogwarts remains an institution of excellence."

His voice resonated with authority, and the crowd hung on his every word. "For generations," he said, pausing dramatically, "parents have trusted us to educate their sons and daughters. That is why we remain the premier preparatory school in the United Kingdom." Another wave of applause rippled through the audience, swelling with a renewed sense of pride and approval. The energy in the room crackled with enthusiasm, a reflection of the confidence Dumbledore instilled in both the parents and their children.

As the applause subsided, Dumbledore shifted his focus toward the younger students, the new faces sitting at the back of the hall, their eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "New students," he said, his voice softening slightly, "the foundation of your success lies in the four pillars of Hogwarts Academy. This applies to everyone—whether you're entering as a seventh year or joining us as a transfer."

At the mention of transfers, Remus Lupin’s stomach clenched, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His hands, still gripping the chair, tightened as his gaze dropped to the floor. He could feel the eyes of others on him, real or imagined, his mind replaying all the ways he felt out of place. The words of the headmaster echoed in his head, and he wondered, for the hundredth time, if he truly belonged here.

“The four pillars,” Dumbledore continued, his voice now firm and steady, “are the guiding principles of this institution, and they will shape the very fabric of your lives.”

“Hogwarts Society candidate Peter Pettigrew,” Dumbledore called out suddenly, breaking the silence. One of the banner-bearing students jumped to his feet with military precision, his expression sharp and focused.

"Yes, sir!" Peter’s voice rang out, clear and loud, carrying a tone of unwavering certainty. His father, sitting beside him in the audience, swelled with pride, his chest puffed out as his face lit up like a beacon. Every line of his body exuded the satisfaction of a parent watching their child fulfill the family legacy.

"Mr. Pettigrew," Dumbledore addressed him with a nod, "what is Tradition?"

"Tradition, sir," Peter responded, his voice steady and loud enough to fill the entire hall, "is the love of school, country, and family. Our tradition at Hogwarts is to be the best!"

"Very good, Mr. Pettigrew," Dumbledore said with approval, his eyes twinkling briefly as Peter sat down, a smug air of satisfaction settling over him. His father, still beaming, glanced around the hall as if daring anyone to challenge his son’s perfection.

The attention of the room shifted again as Dumbledore called out another name. “Hogwarts Society candidate Severus Snape. What is Honor?”

All eyes turned to another young boy standing tall among his peers, as the headmaster’s voice rang out across the hall once more.

Snape rose swiftly from his seat, his movements sharp and purposeful. His blazer, perfectly tailored and adorned with a few gleaming badges of merit, caught the soft flicker of candlelight as he faced the headmaster with unwavering confidence.

"Honor is dignity and the fulfillment of duty, sir!" Snape declared, his voice ringing with conviction that echoed through the hushed hall. There was a firmness in his tone, as though these words were etched into his very soul.

“Well said, Mr. Snape,” Dumbledore responded with a nod of approval. His gaze then shifted down the row of students seated behind the banners. “Next, Honor Society candidate James Potter.”

James, another of the banner bearers, rose with a confident smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His tousled hair seemed to catch the ambient light, and his eyes gleamed with the same easy charm that made him well-liked by his peers. Straightening his blazer, James stood at attention. "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly as he posed the next question, his voice sharper, more pointed. "What is Discipline?"

Without hesitation, James answered, his back straight, his voice clear. "Discipline is respect for parents, teachers, and the headmaster. It’s a principle that comes from within." His words rolled off his tongue smoothly, as if the concept was second nature to him, ingrained through years of schooling and expectation.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said, his tone softening with satisfaction. James sat down with a barely perceptible nod, his smile subtle but unmistakable. On either side of him, his parents reached out, their pride palpable in the gentle pats they gave him on the back. James leaned into their warmth, feeling the familiar comfort of their approval.

Dumbledore’s attention shifted once more, this time to a figure at the edge of the row. "Honor candidate Sirius Black."

The atmosphere seemed to shift as Sirius rose from his seat, slower than those who had come before him. His Hogwarts blazer was heavy with achievement pins clustered across his chest, each a testament to past successes. Yet there was something cold in the way he stood, his movements mechanical, his expression hard. His dark eyes, fixed forward, held a glint of defiance as they locked with Dumbledore’s steady gaze.

"Excellence, Mr. Black?" Dumbledore asked, his voice carrying an edge of expectation that seemed to challenge Sirius.

Sirius’s response came flat and practiced, like a line from a script recited too many times. "Excellence is the result of hard work. Excellence is the key to success, in school and beyond." His voice lacked the passion that might have filled those words for someone else. Instead, they sounded rehearsed, hollow—spoken out of obligation rather than belief. Without acknowledging the room or his family, Sirius sat back down, his expression steely, his gaze trained forward, unwavering.

Beside him, his mother remained as rigid as ever, her expression carved in stone. She neither praised nor acknowledged her son’s answer, her sharp gaze fixed somewhere ahead, as if even the notion of approval was beneath her. Her coldness was palpable, her hands methodically fussing over Sirius's achievement pins, straightening them with an almost obsessive care.

Dumbledore, unperturbed, resumed his speech, his voice ringing out with the authority of someone who had seen generations of students pass through these hallowed halls. "Ladies and gentlemen, at Hogwarts, you will work harder than you have ever worked before, and your reward will be the success that all of us demand of you."

A brief pause followed, the room holding its breath, as Dumbledore prepared to shift the focus. "With the retirement of our esteemed English teacher, Mr. Portius, I would like to take this moment to introduce his successor." His voice softened slightly, taking on a tone of respectful formality. "Please welcome Mr. John Keating, a distinguished graduate of this very institution and recently an educator at the prestigious Chester School in London."

A modest man seated among the faculty nodded in acknowledgment. Mr. John Keating appeared unassuming—his brown hair neatly combed, his soft brown eyes watching the room with quiet curiosity. He was of medium height, with an academic air about him that spoke of a lifetime devoted to knowledge. Though his demeanor was mild, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something lively, perhaps even subversive—that caught the attention of a few students. Sirius’s mother, however, watched Keating with a hint of wariness, her gaze sharp and assessing, as though she found him an unknown variable in the otherwise rigid world she expected.

Dumbledore, his voice once again rich with the weight of tradition, turned to the audience for the final time that evening. "To close this year's convocation, it is my honor to invite to the podium our oldest living alumnus, Mr. Nicholas Flamel, Class of 1898."

The audience rose instantly, a standing ovation sweeping through the room like a wave. Mr. Nicholas Flamel, his frame frail yet dignified, made his way slowly to the podium, waving off offers of assistance. His movements were slow, but each step was filled with quiet determination. When he finally reached the microphone, his voice was soft and barely carried across the room, his words indistinct yet laced with the weight of history. The ceremony concluded on that note, the applause carrying him back to his seat.

As the crowd began to disperse, filing out of the chapel and onto the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts, the cool air was filled with the sounds of farewells. The ancient stone buildings loomed above them, silent witnesses to the partings below. The atmosphere hummed with emotion as families shared last embraces.

Marlene McKinnon stood near the entrance, her mother gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before pulling her into a tight hug. James Potter, walking with his father across the campus, exchanged a few final words, savoring the last moments before they parted ways. Their easy smiles and warm embraces radiated the closeness of their bond.

Sirius Black’s mother, in stark contrast, stood as cold and rigid as ever, her hands meticulously fussing over the pins on Sirius’s blazer, her face betraying no emotion. Nearby, Remus Lupin, seemingly forgotten in the crowd, kicked absently at a loose stone on the pathway, his gaze distant. He seemed lost in thought, searching for something—anything—to distract from the bittersweet loneliness that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Remus stood awkwardly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slightly worn blazer, his gaze fixed on the ground. His mother, standing off to the side, was deep in conversation with another couple, her laughter bright and carefree, entirely unaware of her son's growing discomfort. The mingling of voices and goodbyes around him felt distant, muffled, as if the world had faded into the background. Remus’s shoes scuffed the ground idly, his thoughts a whirl of anxiety and unease, when suddenly, a shadow loomed beside him, snapping him out of his reverie.

He looked up, startled, to find Headmaster Dumbledore standing beside him, his tall figure casting a long silhouette in the fading evening light. The headmaster leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling with a knowing glint as he glanced down at Remus’s name tag.

“Ah, Mr. Lupin,” Dumbledore said, his voice warm and full of an unspoken understanding. A smile, kind but perceptive, played at the corners of his lips. “You have quite the legacy to uphold. Your father was one of our finest.”

The mention of his father caused Remus’s stomach to churn with a mixture of pride and pressure. He swallowed hard, his voice barely rising above a whisper as he replied, “Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded, the smile never leaving his face. It was a smile that seemed to see far beyond the surface, straight into Remus’s turmoil. But he didn’t press. With a gentle nod, the headmaster moved on, his robes flowing behind him as he wove gracefully through the clusters of parents and students. His hand reached out in greeting as he passed, offering a firm handshake here, a word of encouragement there, always with that same comforting presence that calmed even the most nervous of students.

Remus watched him go, feeling both a sense of relief and an odd hollowness, as though the brief moment of acknowledgment had only deepened his awareness of his own uncertainties. He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, glancing toward his mother, who was still animatedly chatting, seemingly oblivious.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore’s path led him to where Mrs. Black stood, her sharp gaze surveying the crowd with an air of cold detachment. Beside her, Sirius stood straight, his expression impassive, though there was a tension in his posture, subtle but unmistakable.

Dumbledore approached them, placing a firm, reassuring hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “We have high expectations for you, Mr. Black,” he said warmly, his eyes locking with Sirius’s, the weight of his words more personal than formal.

“Thank you, sir,” Sirius replied, his voice steady but with a trace of restraint, as though he was keeping something tightly held beneath the surface.

Mrs. Black, not missing a beat, interjected with a tone that was more command than encouragement. “He certainly won’t let us down,” she said, her words heavy with certainty. Her eyes flicked toward Sirius, sharp and expectant. “Isn’t that right, Sirius?”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” Sirius responded, his voice measured, though his gaze flickered briefly between his mother and Dumbledore, betraying the weight he carried between the two forces in his life.

Dumbledore gave Sirius’s shoulder a gentle pat, his expression softening with understanding. He lingered for a moment longer before moving on, his robes swaying as he continued through the crowd.

As Dumbledore made his way across the grounds, his sharp eyes took in the farewells unfolding around him. Younger students stood teary-eyed, their faces crumpling with the onset of tears as they bid their parents goodbye. Some held back their emotions with trembling lips, while others let the tears fall freely, their small bodies shaking with sobs.

“You’re going to love it here,” a father called out cheerfully to his daughter, waving with forced enthusiasm before quickly turning away, the emotional weight of the moment almost too much for him. His daughter watched him disappear into the sea of parents, her eyes wide and glossy with unshed tears.

Nearby, another scene played out less kindly. “Don’t be a baby,” a father snapped at his son, who was on the verge of breaking down. His harsh tone cut through the air, sharp and impatient, stifling any chance of comfort. The boy bit his lip, trying to choke back the sobs that threatened to spill over.

Gradually, the crowd began to thin. One by one, parents filtered out, the hum of engines starting up and cars pulling away filling the air. The distant echoes of farewells faded into the cool evening, leaving the students alone on the vast campus grounds. Hogwarts Academy, nestled deep within the rugged highlands of Scotland, with its towering stone walls and ancient, austere facades, would now be their home.

“I want to go home!” a young girl sobbed, her voice high-pitched and cracking with fear. Her face was streaked with tears, and her small body trembled as she clutched her bag. An upperclassman, who had been standing nearby, quietly stepped forward. He placed a gentle hand on her back, his voice soft and kind as he spoke words of comfort, guiding her toward the dormitories, away from the lingering echoes of goodbyes.

Remus stood alone amidst the thinning crowd, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the last car disappeared down the winding road. The cool wind ruffled his hair as he absently kicked at a loose stone on the pathway, his thoughts scattered, wishing for some distraction to pull him away from the uncertainty gnawing at him. The ancient stone buildings of Hogwarts loomed overhead, their towering silhouettes casting long shadows across the grounds. They felt imposing, almost foreboding, as if the very weight of the school's history and expectations was pressing down on him.

#remus lupin #sirius black #sirius black x remus lupin #james potter #marlene mckinnon #mary macdonald #lily evans #peter pettigrew #dead poets society #dead poets fandom #marauders #marauders fandom #marauders fanfiction #wolfstar #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #harry potter #harry potter fandom

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ellsbclls · 2 years ago

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imagine a modern!au where abby is a principal dancer in a thriving ballet company, and it’s groundbreaking, seeing that dichotomy —someone so gentle and sinewy, rippling muscle and soft, soft hand — even to you.

you see her stretching in the corner, taut muscles splayed to the highest of heavens, fingers kneading into the flesh that doesn’t quite warm up with the rest, and oh to be the fucking hand that leaves fingerprints along her biceps.

even as you see yourself in the shape of her routine, you can’t bring yourself to say a simple “hey! nice form!” because you know you’ll stumble and fall over all the drool that’s pooled in your fucking mouth. and plus, that would mean speaking to her! let alone acknowledging that she exists, which, as far as she’s concerned, you don’t care to admit! and it rarely bothers her because you’re not the first, nor the last, legacy ballerina to shoot her a wayward glance every time she gets cast as a danseur, but sometimes there’s something in your eyes that she can’t quite pick out. something hot and fast like a flash in a pan, and it makes her wonder.

and then you’re cast alongside each other in a production of romeo and juliet :)

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby anderson blurb #abby anderson hcs #abby anderson x female reader #tldr; idiots in love / haters to lovers ballerina arc #reader’s knees buckling out from under her the first time they do a solo rehearsal #and abby’s first instinct is to tuck and roll and she ends up pulling her to her chest in the process #abby thots

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the-owl-tree · 5 months ago

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Favorite close to canon au? Like Sandstorm as first arc protagonist, Russetstar instead of Rowanstar, any others

- @animalechochamber (hoping these help! Sorry if they aren’t the type of asks your wanting)

these are perfect thank you especially since my phone DIED RIGHT WHEN I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH THE WAITING PERIOD SO IM LISTENING TO THE STUPID MUSIC AGAIN-

Ooh, that's hard, there's such a good collection of ideas. I think Darktail because a Blackstar baby is more preferred because he's dead and ShadowClan has to deal with the legacy of the past, it feels very fitting for them.

Idk how close it is but Snowfur being the surprise antagonist instead of Thistleclaw, a bait and switch where Bluefur is so focused on Thistleclaw, she doesn't really notice how aggressive her sister is and ultimately pays the cost when Snowfur gets very violent over her meeting with Oakheart and that's how she dies on the thunderpath. Ough, the drama.

That's a good question! Admittedly I like these AU's because the small change causes a big ripple and I like exploring that ripple.

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respectthepetty · 1 year ago

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Hey petty so recently I told you that you’d single-handedly convinced me to watch the HIStory and I have been having a great goddamn time Taiwan my absolute my beloved my belle of the ball you give me everything I want baby, but…I’ve come to Make Our Days Count and I need some encouragement to start it. Because I KNOW how it ends I KNOW it’s gonna hurt me so I need someone to hype me up and talk me into it

Anon, I told you not to follow me down my trashy path!

I'm not trying to convince y'all to watch anything. Never. Not ever. I loved Hit Bit Love, but I will never recommend that to anyone because I know what it was.

So now you're asking me, the person who consistently tells you not to watch anything unless you want to and not based on my unabashed love for it, to convince you to watch the HIStory-that-shall-not-be-named?

Well, I can't because, as you very well know, it's gonna fucking hurt! That series was, on average, ranked around an 8.8 each episode by 20 faithful watchers on My Drama List until the final episode which is a 4.8 with double the raters (40). Not only did it bury the gay at the last possible second after jailing the gay mafia lead in the previous installment right when Taiwan legalized marriage equality, but half of the world was going into lockdown, and the other half was burying its head in the sand about it. Basically, the morale was so low in BL Land, hell had to make new layers because HIStory decided to be high art and kill someone.

And it would be another two years before we got the next installment, my beloved HIStory 4: Close to You.

Knowing what I know, I wouldn't even tell myself to watch the HIStory-that-shall-not-be-named? I don't want to remember watching it, so I definitely don't want to talk about it.

Instead I'm going to convince you of why it's important that I did watch it four years ago in retrospect:

The Apology Tour

Taiwan knows it fucked up.

Every year since that ill-fated series, we get Wayne and Huang playing in the final episode of other BLs which greatly relies on us knowing who they are and their HIStory because without it, the emotional impact is wasted.

2020 - Life: Love on the Line (Japan) - They played tourists seeing the Northern Lights which is something they mentioned in HIStory.

2021 - Be Loved in House: I Do - Wayne played a random guy the lead runs into and tells him to never let anyone take his love away, but the two actually played in HIStory together, so Wayne's character realizes this as the lead runs away.

2022 - Plus & Minus - They are guests at the leads' wedding who run into each other and feel an instant connection as if they have met in a previous life.

2023 - Kiseki: Dear to Me - They play gangstas from a rival squad, but some of y'all have not watched episode 8, so I'll shut up.

Oh, and the side pair also pop up places like HIStory 4: Close to You.

Basically, each time these guys show up somewhere, it's a spectacle. It's basically AU fanfic every year for us. If they couldn't be together in HIStory, they can be together in other ways, in other shows, and in other universes, so I'm excited to see where they will pop up in 2024, but the commoner who hasn't watched the HIStory-that-shall-not-be-named will not care as much.

Anon, do you want to feel those feelings?

Do you want Taiwan to continue apologizing for its grave misdeed? Do you want to be "in the know" each time you see these two appear on your screen? Do you want to believe that they are together in another universe? Do you want all of this?

Because if you do, you can't have it if you don't watch the series that caused this ripple effect. You are missing a foundational competent of their legacy if you skip out on the HIStory-that-shall-not-be-named.

However, I can't encourage you to watch this.

I watched nine glorious episodes, then got beat down in the finale, only to spend the last four years gleefully sitting front row to the apology tour, so ask yourself if you are comfortable making that deal as well?

You decide.

#history 3: make our days count #you gotta make a decision #do you want pain with four years of happiness #or to never understand what is happening?#that's on you dawg #because I'll ruin your entire life with my trashy love

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queen-ofsunflowers · 1 year ago

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Alright, chime off.

Please note that this list only contains the ones I've PUBLISHED so far, so AUs like Shujin Assassins and Literal Theatre Kid aren't applicable!

#my hero academia #rwby #rwby in bnha au #monsters and magic au #ripple in a legacy au #persona 3 #writing #queen's polls

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starry-blue-echoes · 2 years ago

Note

I've seen a lot of different AUs on here, especially with vampires. I went back a bit. But then the app closed out. 😔

Anyway, (and maybe this was already done further back) but I was thinking of an AU where Joseph teaches Holly how to use Ripple/Hamon. She teaches Jotaro who then teaches Josuke. Meanwhile, Giorno either learns on his own or meets a Zeppeli descendant who teaches him. 🙃

OOOOOOO

If I may raise a possibility: this happens in the Hamon Healer AU

Holly really wants to be like her awesome Great Granny Erina and Grandma Lisa and gets her dad to start teaching her when she’s still really young. Lisa Lisa and Caesar end up teaching her a bunch of other little tricks and eventually once she’s getting older and more capable start giving her formal training

And from there it really begins to be a family legacy type thing, with every new member being taught at least the basics so they can defend themself and treat injuries. Holly eventually teaches Jotaro, who then teaches Josuke with the help of Joseph, and around then he even starts teaching Jolyne and maybe does some joint lessons

As for Giorno...... what if to differ this from the Night Learns the Sun AU and draw from your Zeppeli idea, it was Caesar who found Giorno. It was clear the kid had a home, but Caesar couldn’t shake the feeling that something was.... off.

So he did what Lisa Lisa did for him and started teaching him Hamon, starting with the basics and slowly working up to more advanced stuff. He was never able to convince the kid to come back to Air Supplena with him (despite the years they’d spent together Giorno was still too wary and paranoid to do that, plus it was a long ways away) but he made due with the terrain around Naples. Eventually he even started renting a small apartment in Naples in order to save travel time and money....... plus leaving the kid alone for days on end made him anxious

But let’s fast forward a couple years. Caesar ends up being called back to Air Supplena since apparently the mafia are causing problems and getting a bit too close again, so he heads back to Venice to help deal with it, but not without tell Giorno where he’s going and that he’ll be back in a few weeks

Imagine his surprise when not even two weeks later when he’s taking a break at a nearby restaurant he sees his kid student in Venice where he’s definitely not supposed to be what the fuck how did he get here-

Imagine Giorno’s surprise when his Very Unhappy Teacher marches over to him and suddenly remembers “oh fuck he did say he was going to Venice for business didn’t he” and starts scrambling for an explanation

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novaursa · 26 days ago

Text

Of Gods and Men (covenant)

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: daybreak

- Next part: god killer

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Half a year had passed since the alliance between House Atreides and House Targaryen had been sealed with parchment and promises. Now, in the grand city of Arrakeen, the bond between Leto and Daenys would be sealed with something far more lasting—marriage.

The day had come.

Arrakeen had never seen a celebration quite like this one. The streets were alive with music, banners, and the hum of a thousand voices. The once somber and desolate city was transformed into a vibrant festival, where representatives from allied Houses had gathered, not just from within the Imperium but from the far reaches of the Targaryen's hidden domain. House banners rippled in the hot desert winds, and there was no mistaking the awe that gripped those who had never before encountered the Targaryen sigil—the three-headed dragon on black, alongside the Atreides hawk.

Inside the towering stronghold, Leto stood at the far end of the hall, dressed in the deep green and gold of his House, his posture commanding, but his heart undeniably lighter than it had been in many months. His eyes were focused on the massive entrance doors, waiting for you—Daenys. He had dreamed of this moment, though it still felt surreal. The weight of leadership, of the war that loomed over them, fell away for just a moment. He was not just the Duke today. He was a man about to marry the woman who had come to mean more to him than he had thought possible.

Across from him stood the Targaryen delegation, Aenys resplendent in his armor, a silent observer of his daughter’s union. His expression, though calm and unreadable, carried the pride of a father knowing that his bloodline would now shape the future of Arrakis and beyond. Aelor and Maelor stood beside their father, the former nodding in approval to Leto, the latter slightly more cautious, but no less honored to witness this union.

And then the doors opened.

All eyes turned as you stepped into the hall, your figure framed by the light of the desert sun spilling through the doorway. You moved with the quiet grace of a dragonlord’s daughter, wearing a gown woven with threads of silver and red, reminiscent of your family’s ancient colors. Dragonscale patterns glimmered faintly across the fabric, a nod to your heritage, and yet the simplicity of the gown allowed your natural beauty to shine through.

The hall fell into a reverent hush as you walked toward Leto, your gaze locking with his. His breath caught in his throat for a moment—he had seen you in battle, watched you soar on the back of your dragon, but in this moment, you were more radiant than ever before. And you were his.

As you approached, Leto stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his heart pounding with something more than just nerves. He could see the same emotions reflected in your lilac eyes, a mix of anticipation and warmth that made him feel at ease. This wasn’t just a political arrangement anymore. It was something real, something profound that would bind you both in ways neither of you had expected when you first met.

The ceremony began, overseen by a Fremen elder and a representative of the Targaryen faith—an unusual combination that symbolized the unity not just between two noble Houses, but between two entirely different worlds. The elder’s voice was low and steady, speaking words of unity and strength, while the Targaryen priestess invoked the ancient words of Valyria, calling upon the power of dragons to bless the union.

And then came the vows.

Leto took your hand, his grip firm yet gentle. His voice, usually so commanding, softened as he spoke. “Daenys,” he began, “I’ve stood on many battlegrounds, faced countless dangers… but none of that compares to the honor of standing here, before you. Today, I take you not just as my wife, but as my partner in all things. Together, we will face whatever comes, and I will stand beside you, as we forge the future of our Houses.”

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand in return. When you spoke, your voice was filled with the same strength and tenderness. “Leto, my journey began long before I came to Arrakis, but in you, I found someone worth standing with. You’ve faced hardships that few could understand, and yet you’ve remained strong, not just for your House, but for the people who rely on you. Today, I promise to be your strength, as you have been mine, and together, we will bring fire and life to this world.”

The final words were spoken, and the Fremen elder nodded, stepping back to allow the couple to seal their union.

Leto leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of more than just duty or alliance. It was a promise—of love, of partnership, and of a future together, no matter what dangers lay ahead.

As the kiss ended, the hall erupted in applause, the sound filling the chamber as the guests celebrated the new union. Leto smiled at you, his heart full as he turned to the crowd, hand in yours, ready to face the world as husband and wife.

The celebration that followed was grand, as expected, with banquets and music filling the stronghold well into the night. Fremen, Atreides soldiers, and Targaryen warriors alike mingled together, enjoying the shared moment of peace and joy. The vast hallways were decorated with banners from both Houses, and the sound of instruments from both worlds blended harmoniously, a symbol of the unity that had been achieved.

As the night wore on, Leto found a moment to pull you aside, away from the prying eyes of guests. You stood together on one of the high terraces, overlooking the vast desert that stretched out before you. The stars above were bright, twinkling against the deep black of the Arrakis sky.

Leto turned to you, his hand still in yours, his voice soft but filled with emotion. “This is the beginning of something incredible, Daenys,” he said, his gaze locked on yours. “We’ve done what many thought impossible.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “We have. And we’ll continue to surprise them.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you closer. “I never imagined I’d be standing here, like this. But now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

From a distance, Paul, Gurney, and Duncan stood on one of the smaller terraces, overlooking the grand festivities below. The sounds of laughter and music filled the air, but their attention was elsewhere—focused on Leto and you, as the Duke gently pulled you aside for a moment of privacy. The newlyweds stood together, just beyond the reach of the crowd, silhouetted against the desert sky, their conversation private but their bond visible to anyone who cared to look.

Duncan watched the scene with a sly grin, nudging Paul lightly with his elbow. "Well, looks like the Duke has finally found someone to keep him on his toes," he said, his tone light with amusement. "Can’t say I blame him."

Paul, who had spent the last several months getting to know you better, chuckled softly. "She’s strong—stronger than anyone I’ve met. Father’s in good hands."

Gurney, standing with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement. His usually gruff demeanor softened ever so slightly as he watched the two of you together. "The lass will do the Duke some good," he remarked, his voice tinged with affection. "She’s got that fire in her, but there’s a kindness too. Just what Leto needs."

Duncan smiled at Gurney’s rare moment of sentimentality. "Is that so, Gurney? You sound like you’re getting soft on us."

Gurney shot him a look, though there was no real heat in it. "Don’t push your luck, Duncan."

Paul couldn’t help but smile at the camaraderie between the two men. It was a rare moment of levity in a life that had been filled with far too much uncertainty and danger. His eyes, however, remained on you and Leto. There was something about the way you both stood together, the ease with which you interacted, that struck a chord in him. It was clear that the bond between you and his father was deeper than politics or duty—it was something real, something Paul hadn’t seen before in his father.

As the conversation between the three men continued, Aenys Targaryen walked nearby, flanked by his sons, Aelor and Maelor. The Dragonlord’s eyes lingered on the scene, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. He walked with slow, deliberate steps, his expression more thoughtful than celebratory.

"It’s a shame your mother couldn’t be here to witness this," Aenys remarked quietly to his sons, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. "She would have been proud to see how far we’ve come, how our House is forging new paths." His tone was soft but tinged with regret, the burden of his wife’s absence weighing on him.

Aelor, ever the calm and measured son, nodded solemnly. "She’s bedridden, but I’m sure she knows, Father. She would have wanted to be here, but her health…"

Maelor, less guarded than his older brother, spoke with a more direct tone. "She would have loved this. Seeing Daenys marry into another powerful House, especially one like Atreides." He glanced over at the crowd below, where you and Leto stood. "But we know she’s with us in spirit."

Aenys let out a sigh, his gaze briefly flickering to the stars. "I hope so. The future of our House is bright, but it comes with its own burdens. I wonder how much of that she truly understands."

The Dragonlord’s voice trailed off as they continued walking, the weight of responsibility ever present on his shoulders. Though he spoke of his wife’s absence, there was an undeniable pride in his voice when he spoke of you. The alliance between Targaryen and Atreides was more than just a political move—it was a union that had the potential to reshape the galaxy. But even in the midst of such monumental events, Aenys couldn't help but lament the personal moments his wife was missing.

Jassica wandered the fringes of the festivities, her steps unsteady with the weight of her thoughts. The flickering lanterns that illuminated the courtyard felt like a distant blur as her mind raced, filled with the unsettling awareness that the noose of the Sisterhood was tightening around her neck—and worse, around Paul’s.

Since they had arrived on Arrakis, Jessica had watched with growing unease as Paul began to embrace the desert, to find his purpose in realizing Leto’s dreams of reshaping this hostile planet. And now, with this cursed alliance between Atreides and Targaryen, Paul’s path seemed to drift further from the one the Sisterhood had laid out for him. The dream they had carefully crafted for generations was slipping from her grasp, and there was nothing more dangerous than a plan coming undone.

Jessica’s eyes scanned the crowd, moving over the various guests with a distant detachment until her gaze landed on you. You were standing not far from Leto, but your attention was elsewhere, your body language suggesting that you were briefly disengaged from the festivities. For a moment, Jessica hesitated. She had been putting this off, avoiding what she knew needed to be said, but tonight… tonight, the time had come.

The fear she felt wasn’t just for herself or for Paul, but for what the future held if she didn’t confront you. And underneath that fear was something darker—an unsettling truth that gnawed at her: you were immune to her Bene Gesserit powers, to the subtle manipulations that had guided so many others. The Targaryens, with their dragon blood, were immune to the Sisterhood’s control. You couldn’t be bent or swayed by the techniques that had served her for so long.

She straightened her posture, swallowing her trepidation as she moved toward you. The crowd parted easily for her as she approached, the others unaware of the silent storm brewing beneath her composed exterior. When she reached you, her voice was calm, but the urgency was unmistakable.

"Daenys," Jessica began, her tone measured, "I need to speak with you."

You turned to her, your expression neutral but alert, as if sensing the weight of what was to come. There was a brief pause between you, the distant sounds of the celebration fading as a strange stillness settled between you two.

"I know what this is about," you said, your voice steady, not needing to hear the words. "You want to talk about Paul."

Jessica’s gaze sharpened, though she forced herself to remain calm. "You’ve become close to him. Closer than I would have liked."

You gave a slight nod. "Paul has questions, and I’ve answered them. I’ve been honest with him. Something your Sisterhood doesn’t seem to value as much as secrecy."

Jessica stiffened at the mention of the Sisterhood, feeling the unspoken accusation laced in your words. It was true, of course, but it wasn’t something she could admit openly. Not to you, not now.

"This isn’t about honesty," she said, her voice tightening. "It’s about influence. You know what Paul is meant for. What his future is supposed to be. You—your people—have derailed everything. You’ve changed his path."

You met her gaze evenly, unflinching. "Perhaps his path was never meant to be the one you planned. Paul isn’t a tool in your game, Jessica. He has a mind of his own. Maybe it’s time you realized that."

The air between you grew heavy, a silent battle of wills, but Jessica knew there was no use in trying to manipulate you. You were immune to her tricks, her subtle influence. The Bene Gesserit had tried for generations to touch the Targaryens, but your bloodline, steeped in the fire of dragons, was beyond their reach.

Still, she couldn’t let this go. She couldn’t stand by and watch as her son’s destiny slipped further and further from the Sisterhood’s control.

"Do you even understand what’s at stake?" Jessica’s voice lowered, her frustration spilling over. "What your presence here, your influence on Paul, could mean for him? For all of us?"

You studied her for a long moment, your lilac eyes unwavering. "I know more than you think, Jessica," you replied, your voice soft but firm. "I know that your Sisterhood has spent generations trying to create a weapon—a person who can bend the future to their will. Paul may be part of that plan, but he’s not yours to control."

Jessica’s breath caught at your words, and for the first time, she felt truly outmatched. It wasn’t just that you were immune to her powers; it was that you saw through her in a way that unnerved her. You knew the deeper game, the one she had tried so hard to keep hidden.

"I won’t let you take him from me," Jessica said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. "I won’t let you sever him from his destiny."

You stepped closer, your expression softening, though your voice remained resolute. "I’m not taking Paul from you. But maybe it’s time you let him decide his own destiny. Let him be the man he was meant to be, not the weapon you want him to become."

The words hung in the air, heavy with truth and challenge. Jessica stood there, feeling the weight of her failure—her inability to control this situation, to bend it to her will. And she knew, in that moment, that she had lost the battle she hadn’t even realized she was fighting.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, leaving Jessica standing alone amidst the celebration, the sounds of joy and laughter feeling distant and hollow. She had played the game for so long, but tonight, she realized that the rules had changed.

And the Sisterhood would not forgive her for it.

As Jessica stood there, she glanced toward Leto, who was now laughing quietly with Aenys and the others, and she understood with cold clarity that her time of influence over House Atreides was coming to an end.

Her son was slipping away, just as Leto had.

At the center of the hall, Stilgar was locked in an amusing debate with Serus Ix and his sister Xyla Ix, their exchange drawing the attention of many nearby. The topic? Something as trivial as desert hydrophonics and whether Ixian technology could outlast Fremen ingenuity in the harsh conditions of Arrakis.

"I’m telling you," Stilgar said with his usual gruffness, his arms crossed, "you could drop your fancy machines into the desert, and in a week, the sand would eat them alive. There is no machine you’ve made that could survive the heat and the worms."

Serus raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the challenge. "Oh, come now, Stilgar. Our machines are built for extremes. You underestimate us! What do you think keeps those harvesters running day after day?"

"The sweat of the Fremen, that’s what," Stilgar shot back with a grin, and a wave of laughter rippled through the room.

Leto and Daenys stood nearby, watching the lighthearted exchange. Leto’s arm rested lightly around your waist, his posture relaxed as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. It had been a long time since the Duke had allowed himself such a moment of peace, and your presence at his side made it all the more precious.

"Who do you think will win this argument?" Leto asked quietly, an amused smile playing at his lips.

You smiled, your gaze fixed on the lively debate. "I’d say it’s a tie. Serus won’t back down, but Stilgar has the wit and the desert on his side."

Leto chuckled softly. "I think you might be right."

The laughter from the debate drew the attention of those around them, but the mood remained light, even as Duncan approached from the far side of the room, his usual composed demeanor softened by the humor in the air. Paul sat nearby, observing it all with the quiet fascination of someone absorbing every detail.

After a moment, you turned to Leto, your eyes sparkling with an idea. "Tomorrow," you said, your voice playful, "I’m taking you to ride with me on Vexiae."

Leto, caught entirely off guard, nearly choked on his drink. He sputtered, setting the glass down with wide eyes, a bit of wine trickling down the side of his mouth. "You—you want me to what?"

Across the room, Duncan, who had heard the comment, barely managed to stifle his laughter, his shoulders shaking as he pretended to be deeply interested in something else. Paul, watching his father’s reaction, grinned widely, thoroughly amused by the prospect.

Even Aenys, who had been in conversation with Aelor, turned his head just enough to smirk at Leto’s reaction, though he said nothing. It was clear he found the idea as amusing as anyone else.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at Leto’s surprise, leaning in closer to him. "Oh, come now, Duke. You said you wanted to understand my world better, didn’t you?"

"I didn’t mean riding a dragon!" Leto exclaimed, still trying to process the idea. He wiped his mouth, glancing around the room to see everyone watching with varying degrees of amusement.

You shrugged, your eyes dancing with mischief. "It’s the best way to see the desert."

"Or fall to my death," Leto muttered, though there was a glimmer of excitement beneath his protest.

"Vexiae won’t let that happen," you reassured him, a knowing smile playing at your lips. "Besides, you trust me, don’t you?"

Leto met your gaze, his eyes softening as he realized there was no escaping this. "I do," he admitted with a sigh, shaking his head with an affectionate smile. "I just didn’t think you’d try to kill me before the honeymoon."

More laughter erupted around them as the others enjoyed the playful banter between the Duke and his new bride. Duncan, no longer able to hold back, finally let out a full laugh. "You’ll be fine, Leto. Just hold on tight and keep your eyes open."

"Easy for you to say," Leto grumbled good-naturedly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

Aenys finally joined in, his voice rich with humor. "Don’t worry, Leto. You’ll get used to it after the first drop."

"The first drop?" Leto looked at Aenys in alarm, but the Dragonlord merely gave him a pat on the shoulder before turning back to his conversation with Aelor.

You leaned closer, your voice soft and teasing. "Tomorrow, at sunrise. Be ready."

Leto sighed again, but this time there was no real reluctance in his expression—just a mix of affection and nervous anticipation. He smiled at you, his heart full, despite the uncertainty that came with your adventurous spirit.

"All right, Daenys," he said with a resigned chuckle, "I’ll be ready."

The night air of Arrakeen was cool, a rare relief from the heat of the desert, as Leto and Daenys made their way through the quiet halls of the stronghold. The celebrations outside continued, but the two of you had slipped away, eager for the privacy that awaited behind the doors of your chambers.

As the door closed behind you, the world beyond seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you bathed in the soft, warm glow of the lanterns that flickered along the walls. The silence was filled with anticipation, the quiet intimacy of the moment drawing you both closer.

Leto turned to you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you gently against him, and in that moment, all the formality of the day melted away. His fingers brushed against your skin, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “After everything… we’re finally alone.”

You smiled softly, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. “Alone at last.”

The kiss that followed was slow, deliberate—filled with a passion that had been building for what felt like an eternity. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that belied the hunger beneath, and you responded in kind, deepening the kiss until the world outside ceased to exist. There was nothing now but the warmth of his body against yours, the steady thrum of your heartbeats in sync.

As you kissed, Leto’s hands began to roam, slipping beneath the layers of fabric that still clung to your bodies. Your clothing fell away, piece by piece, until there was nothing between you but bare skin. The heat of your bodies mingled, and his touch, so gentle at first, became more insistent, his need for you growing with every passing second.

Without breaking the kiss, you guided him toward the bed, your lips never leaving his. The room seemed to blur around you as you moved, your breaths quickening in time with the building desire between you. His hands were firm yet tender as they explored every inch of you, learning the curves of your body, savoring the way you responded to his touch.

When you finally reached the bed, Leto lowered you onto the soft sheets, his body pressing against yours with a weight that felt both comforting and exhilarating. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a line of fire in their wake, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer.

The night was filled with passion, wild and untamed, yet underpinned by something deeper—love. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word was a testament to the bond you had forged, one that transcended the political alliance that had brought you together. This was something real, something raw, something that neither of you had expected but had both come to cherish.

As your bodies moved together, the world outside faded into nothingness. There was only the two of you, lost in each other, in the rhythm of your shared breaths, in the heat that built between you until it reached its inevitable climax.

When it was over, you lay in the quiet aftermath, the sheets tangled around your bodies, your skin still warm and slick from the exertion of your lovemaking. Leto’s arm was draped over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he gazed at you with a soft smile that made your heart swell.

“You should sleep,” you whispered, your voice still breathless. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow… for Vexiae.”

Leto chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You want to become a widow after one day of marriage, is that it?”

You laughed, a light sound that filled the room, leaning in to kiss him again, your lips brushing against his in a tender caress. “I won’t let you fall, Leto. Trust me.”

“I do,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly around you. “I trust you more than anyone.”

You kissed him again, softer this time, a promise of more to come. As you lay in the quiet of your shared chambers, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s arms, the weight of the world outside seemed to disappear. For now, there was only this—only the two of you, together.

As the night grew late and the last echoes of laughter and music began to fade into the desert winds, Paul wandered away from the remaining guests, his steps deliberate as he sought out the one person who had distanced herself from the festivities. He found his mother, Jessica, standing alone near the far edge of the courtyard, her figure silhouetted against the moonlit dunes beyond.

She stood with her arms folded tightly, her gaze distant, as though the weight of everything she carried was too much to bear. Paul watched her for a moment, feeling the tension radiating from her. He knew the burden she carried—it was one of fear, control, and the knowledge that the future was slipping away from her grasp.

Taking a deep breath, Paul approached, his presence calm but resolute. "Mother," he said softly.

Jessica didn’t turn to face him immediately, but he saw the slight stiffness in her shoulders as she acknowledged his presence. For a long moment, she remained silent, staring out into the night. When she finally spoke, her voice was laced with frustration and something deeper—fear.

"Paul," she said quietly, "both you and your father are making a mistake."

Paul’s expression remained steady as he came to stand beside her. He had been expecting this, knowing how deeply his mother had resisted the path they were on. He had seen it in her eyes, felt it in her presence ever since the Targaryens had entered their lives. And yet, he knew this path was the only one that mattered.

"You’re wrong, Mother," he said, his voice unwavering. "Without Daenys, Father would be dead."

Jessica finally turned to him at that, her eyes searching his face, looking for something—doubt, hesitation, anything that might confirm her own fears. But Paul’s conviction was unshakable, and that, more than anything, unsettled her. His words held such finality, such certainty.

"You can’t be certain of that," Jessica said, her voice sharper now. "There are too many futures, too many possibilities. You’re too young to understand how easily things can shift. How quickly everything can fall apart."

Paul held her gaze, his own eyes filled with a quiet intensity that Jessica hadn’t seen in him before. "I’ve seen it," he said simply, his words cutting through the doubt like a blade. "In every other future, Father dies. In every single one—except this one."

The certainty in his voice made Jessica pause. There was something in the way he spoke, something that felt almost prophetic, and for a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. Her son—her son, who she had raised and trained, who carried the hopes of the Sisterhood—was slipping away from her control. And what frightened her the most was that she didn’t know how to stop it.

"You’ve seen it," she repeated, almost to herself, her mind racing as she tried to process what he was saying. "The future…"

Paul nodded, his expression softening just a fraction. "Yes, Mother. I’ve seen it. And Daenys—she’s the key. She saved him. Without her, none of this would have been possible."

Jessica’s eyes hardened, and her fear took on a sharper edge. "The Sisterhood will not forgive this. You know what they want, Paul. What they’ve planned. This alliance, this marriage—it’s a betrayal of everything they’ve worked for."

Paul’s lips pressed into a thin line, his own frustrations beginning to surface. He had always known the Bene Gesserit had their own agenda, but the more he saw, the more he understood that their plans were never meant to protect him or his father. They had always been about control—control of the future, of bloodlines, of destinies. And he was done being a pawn.

"They would have betrayed us too, Mother," Paul said firmly. "They would have left us to the mercy of the Harkonnens and the Emperor. They’ve been playing their own game, and you know it. You’ve always known it."

Jessica flinched at his words, the truth of them striking too close to home. She had spent years walking the fine line between loyalty to the Sisterhood and love for Leto and Paul. But now, with the future hanging in the balance, that line had blurred beyond recognition.

Her silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and the weight of a lifetime of decisions. Paul watched her, his heart heavy with the knowledge that their paths were diverging, that he could no longer follow the course she had laid out for him. His future—his true future—was his to shape, not the Sisterhood’s.

"You don’t have to agree with me, Mother," Paul said softly, "but I need you to understand. This is the only way forward. I won’t let them control me—or Father—anymore."

Jessica’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and for a moment, Paul thought she might say something—something to bridge the growing gap between them. But instead, she turned away, her face set in a mask of quiet resignation.

"Just be careful, Paul," she said, her voice low and pained. "Be careful where you place your trust. There are forces at work here that neither of us can control."

Paul nodded, understanding the warning in her words, but knowing that his course was already set. The future was uncertain, but in this moment, one thing was clear: his path lay with Leto and Daenys, and the world they were trying to build.

And whatever the Sisterhood had planned, Paul would no longer be a part of it.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon Leto found himself standing beside you at the edge of the courtyard. The air was cool, still tinged with the lingering chill of the night, but there was an electric hum of excitement in the air—one that had been building ever since you had made your proposal the night before.

Leto glanced sideways at you, and despite his best efforts to appear calm and composed, there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes. "Are you absolutely sure about this?" he asked, his voice betraying just a touch of anxiety.

You smiled, your lilac eyes gleaming in the early morning light. "Don’t worry, Leto. I’ve done this a thousand times. Vexiae is more than capable."

Leto swallowed, clearly trying to convince himself that this was a perfectly reasonable activity for a newlywed Duke to be undertaking. "Right," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "What could possibly go wrong?"

From the steps behind you, Duncan, Gurney, Aenys, Paul, and Hawat watched the preparations with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief. Duncan crossed his arms over his chest, grinning from ear to ear as he leaned over to Gurney. "I’m betting five solari that the Duke screams at least once before they hit the desert."

Gurney chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, you’ll hear more than a scream, lad. If the Duke survives this without wetting himself, I’ll eat my stillsuit."

"Your faith in the Duke is inspiring," Paul said, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips showed he shared their amusement.

Hawat, always the pragmatist, eyed the dragon with a mixture of fascination and concern. "If the Duke falls off, we’ll need to ready an emergency team," he muttered under his breath. "I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but this…"

"You worry too much, Hawat," Aenys said with a wry grin, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold. "She won’t let him fall. Probably."

At that moment, Vexiae, your dragon, let out a deep, resonant growl that reverberated through the air, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. The magnificent creature spread her wings, her molten-red scales catching the rising sun, casting a golden glow over her sleek, powerful form. The sight was awe-inspiring, even for those who had seen dragons before.

Leto stared up at the beast, then at you, then back at the beast. "You’re sure about this?" he asked again, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes," you said with a laugh, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "Trust me. Vexiae won’t let you fall."

Leto took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and nodded. "All right then. Let’s do this."

With your help, Leto climbed onto Vexiae’s back, his movements a bit stiff as he tried to settle himself into the saddle behind you. His hands gripped the edges of the saddle with white-knuckled determination, and it was clear to anyone watching that this was going to be a test of his composure.

You turned slightly, giving him a wink. "Hold on tight."

Before Leto could respond, Vexiae’s wings snapped open with a thunderous whoosh, and with a powerful leap, the dragon took to the sky. The rush of wind hit them immediately, the ground falling away as the city of Arrakeen became a distant blur beneath them.

"DID SHE JUST TAKE OFF WITHOUT WARNING?!" Leto’s voice carried through the wind, high-pitched and panicked, as he clung to the saddle for dear life.

Duncan, Gurney, and the others burst into laughter as they watched the dragon soar higher, Leto’s shouts of terror echoing back down to them. "There it is," Duncan said with a grin, slapping Gurney on the shoulder. "That’s the scream I was waiting for."

Gurney wiped a tear from his eye, barely able to contain his own laughter. "Oh, Leto's going to have stories to tell after this one."

Paul, still smirking, crossed his arms as he watched the dragon loop gracefully over the city, heading toward the deep desert. "He’ll get used to it," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

High above, as the city below began to shrink into a collection of sand-colored specks, Leto finally found his voice again. "I’m starting to think this was a terrible idea!"

You laughed, leaning back slightly so he could hear you better. "You’ll be fine! Just don’t let go!"

Leto let out a shaky breath, his knuckles still white from his death grip on the saddle. But slowly, as the wind rushed past them and the desert opened up beneath them, the sheer majesty of the experience began to sink in. The vast expanse of Arrakis stretched out as far as the eye could see, and the sun bathed the sands in a golden light, making the dunes shimmer like waves on the ocean.

"I… I can’t believe it," Leto muttered, his voice quieter now, filled with awe rather than fear. "This is incredible."

You smiled, glancing over your shoulder at him. "I told you, didn’t I?"

For the next few moments, they flew in peaceful silence, the wind rushing past them as Vexiae carried them effortlessly through the sky. Leto’s grip on the saddle slowly relaxed, and he even managed a tentative smile as they glided over the desert, the morning light casting long shadows across the dunes.

Back on the ground, Gurney shook his head, still grinning. "Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe he won’t need new trousers after all."

Aenys chuckled, watching as the dragon disappeared over the horizon. "He’ll be a proper dragonrider before you know it."

As Leto and you soared through the sky, the fear that had gripped him earlier began to melt away, replaced by a sense of freedom he hadn’t known before. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and beautiful all at once. And for the first time in a long while, Leto felt truly alive.

As they circled back toward the city, Leto leaned closer to you, his voice softer now, filled with wonder. "I think I’m starting to see why you love this so much."

You smiled, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze. "I knew you would."

And with that, the two of you soared back toward Arrakeen, high above the sands of Arrakis, where the world felt limitless, and the future—whatever it held—seemed just a little brighter.

The chambers aboard the Harkonnen flagship were surounded by cold steel walls. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen sat at the head of the table, his massive form hunched forward, eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. His ever-present suspensors hummed faintly, carrying his bulk just enough to make his movements fluid despite his size. His nephew Feyde-Rautha leaned against a pillar nearby, his smirk betraying his impatience, while his brutish brother Raban stood near the doorway, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. The Baron’s Mentat, Pieter De Vries, hovered close by, his pale eyes glinting with the cold, mechanical calculation of a man whose mind was a maze of schemes.

On the table before them was a holographic display of Arrakis, its cities and territories illuminated in sharp detail. The Targaryen base was marked, and so too was Arrakeen, where House Atreides still held firm. For now.

"So," the Baron began, his voice a slow, oily rumble that seemed to fill every corner of the room, "we have finally perfected it." His thick fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his floating chair, a look of deep satisfaction crossing his bloated features. "A weapon that can take down a dragon."

The words hung in the air, heavy with sinister promise. Feyde’s smirk widened as he straightened from his lazy slouch, his eyes gleaming with the prospect of revenge. Ever since that encounter on the frozen wasteland of Arctis, the reader had haunted him. The way she had humiliated him—fleeing from him, slipping through his fingers like sand—had gnawed at him endlessly. Now, he would have his chance.

"Finally," Feyde drawled, running a hand through his hair. "When can we strike? I’ve been waiting long enough to deal with that dragon-riding witch. I’ve chased her across the stars, and yet she keeps slipping away."

The Baron gave his nephew a look of mild amusement, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Patience, my dear Feyde. Patience. All things in time."

Raban, ever the brute, grunted from his place near the door. "Just tell us when to hit them. I’m tired of sitting around."

Pieter stepped forward, his eyes gleaming as he addressed the group. "The weapon is ready, but we must move carefully. It fires concentrated bursts of energy capable of disrupting even the strongest shields—Targaryen or otherwise. A direct hit on a dragon’s wings or its vital points will bring it crashing down from the sky. But we must keep this… advantage… to ourselves."

The Baron nodded, his eyes narrowing as his fingers drummed against the table. "Indeed. We can’t let the Emperor or his Sardaukar get wind of this. If Shaddam learns of the weapon, he’ll want it for himself, and I have no intention of giving him such power."

Feyde’s expression darkened. "Then what’s the plan, Uncle? I’ve waited long enough to settle this score."

The Baron glanced at him, his amusement returning. "Eager, are we? Very well. We will strike soon, but not yet. There’s still much to be done. House Atreides is strong, and with the Targaryens at their side, we cannot afford to be careless."

Pieter folded his hands behind his back, his voice cool and methodical. "We must weaken them first. Isolate them. Draw them out where they are vulnerable. Once the Atreides and Targaryens are separated, we can strike the dragons. When they are grounded, they will be nothing more than myth turned to ash."

"Grounded?" Feyde’s grin widened at the thought. "That’s all I need. Once that dragon is out of the sky, she’s mine."

Raban grunted again, his arms crossed. "And the Emperor?"

The Baron waved a dismissive hand. "Let the Emperor deal with his Sardaukar. He doesn’t need to know what we’re planning, not yet. Shaddam thinks he controls the game, but we’ve always played by our own rules. The Targaryens—dragons or not—will fall, just like House Atreides will."

The room was silent for a moment as the weight of the plan settled over them. The Baron’s gaze flicked between his nephews, his Mentat, and the holographic image of Arrakis flickering before them. His plans, always shifting, always moving toward his ultimate goal, were nearing fruition.

"Once we strike," the Baron said slowly, "we will take everything from Leto. His House, his alliances, his future. And as for the dragon girl," he added, turning his cold gaze to Feyde, "you’ll have your moment with her. But don’t make the mistake of underestimating her again. She has proven… resilient."

Feyde’s eyes gleamed dangerously. "This time, she won’t get away. I’ll make sure of it."

The Baron smiled darkly. "See that you do."

Pieter nodded in agreement, his mechanical mind already working through the details. "Our forces are nearly ready. Once we move, it will be swift. Silent. We cannot afford to leave loose ends."

The Baron’s smile widened, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. "Good. Then it begins soon. But remember, this weapon—this power—stays with us. No one else must know, not even the Emperor. The time for secrets is upon us, and those secrets will be our victory."

As the meeting drew to a close, the Baron’s eyes gleamed with the dark satisfaction of a man who knew he held the upper hand. For now, the Atreides and Targaryens were united, but soon… soon, they would fall.

And the dragons would burn.

The soft hiss of the cylinder's seal being broken echoed in Leto's private study as Hawat handed him the sealed message bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Corrino. The weight of the small object felt heavier than it should have, as if the Emperor’s presence was already looming in the room, pressing down on everything with unseen authority.

Leto unrolled the message, his eyes quickly scanning the formal wording. His brow furrowed as he read further, tension building in the set of his jaw.

The Emperor, Shaddam IV, was coming to Arrakis in a few weeks. Accompanied by representatives from both The Guild and the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. It wasn’t a casual visit, and it certainly wasn’t an admission of defeat after the failed attack on House Atreides and the Targaryens. No, this visit had a purpose, one cloaked in polite diplomacy but undoubtedly laced with veiled threats.

Leto set the message down on the table, the edges of the parchment curling as it settled. He exhaled slowly, his eyes dark with frustration. "What do you make of this, Hawat?"

The old Mentat, standing quietly by the window, didn’t answer immediately. He stared out at the dusty horizon of Arrakeen, the city still buzzing with activity below them, though everything felt strangely tense, like a coiled spring waiting to snap.

"Emperors don’t come to planets like Arrakis without purpose, my Lord," Hawat said at last, his voice low and contemplative. "And Shaddam doesn’t admit mistakes. If he’s coming, it’s because he believes he can still turn the situation in his favor. He’ll come with an offer. One that seems to benefit you, but in reality, it will only serve to strengthen his hold on the throne."

Leto’s hands clenched into fists, the muscles in his arms tightening as anger bubbled beneath his calm exterior. "His hold on the throne should be the last of his worries. After what he tried to pull with the Harkonnens, he should be on his knees asking for forgiveness."

"He’s not the type to kneel," Hawat said dryly. "No doubt the Guild and the Sisterhood will try to sway your decisions as well. They’ll each have their own interests, all woven into this elaborate web of power."

Leto stood abruptly, pacing the length of his study. His frustration boiled over, filling the air around him with an unspoken tension. "The Harkonnens are still out there. They’ve been spotted in the deep desert near the Targaryen base. They’re preparing for something—another strike, maybe."

He paused, his gaze darkening as his thoughts turned to you—Daenys. His wife. The mother of his unborn child. She had been spending more time at the Targaryen base recently, overseeing the expansions with her brothers, but there was always that underlying threat of danger, especially now with the news of the Harkonnens lurking nearby.

"And with Daenys pregnant..." Leto’s voice trailed off, the thought too bitter to finish. His anger simmered beneath the surface, but there was fear there too—fear for her, for their child, for everything they had fought to protect.

Hawat’s gaze softened slightly, though his demeanor remained composed. "We must prepare carefully, my Lord. The Emperor’s visit is not just about power—it’s about control. He knows your House has gained strength, especially with the Targaryen alliance. He’ll want to ensure that any threats to his reign are neutralized."

Leto stopped pacing, turning to face Hawat with a deep frown. "Neutralized?"

"Yes," Hawat said, nodding slowly. "He may offer you something that seems too good to refuse. Perhaps a guarantee of safety or some form of protection. But it will come at a cost. And if we’re not careful, that cost may be too high."

Leto clenched his fists, the frustration mounting. "The gall of him... to come here after all this. To dare show his face while the Harkonnens are still out there, plotting, while Daenys carries our child..."

Hawat stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "This is why we must tread carefully. We can’t let our emotions guide us, my Lord. The Emperor is dangerous, and he won’t hesitate to exploit any weakness he sees. He’ll test you—test us all."

Leto exhaled slowly, trying to temper his rage, to think clearly through the anger that clouded his judgment. "We’ll need to be prepared for anything."

"Indeed," Hawat agreed, folding his hands behind his back. "And we must assume the Harkonnens will use the Emperor’s visit to their advantage as well. We can’t let our guard down. Not for a moment."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of what was coming pressing down on both men like a suffocating cloud. Leto’s mind raced, the possibilities spinning in his thoughts like a storm. The Emperor’s visit would change everything, for better or worse. And in the meantime, the shadow of the Harkonnens still loomed large, a threat that hadn’t been fully eradicated.

Leto ran a hand through his hair, staring out the window at the city below. "Make sure all preparations are in place for the Emperor’s arrival," he said finally, his voice quiet but filled with resolve. "And have Vaegor’s men keep a close watch on any Harkonnen activity. If they move on the Targaryen base again, I want to know about it immediately."

Hawat nodded, already planning the necessary precautions in his mind. "I’ll see to it personally."

As Hawat turned to leave, Leto remained at the window, his gaze fixed on the endless horizon of the desert.

He thought of Daenys again, her strength, her fire, and the child they were about to bring into the world. He would fight for them, for his House, for their future—no matter what the Emperor had planned.

And if the Harkonnens dared to strike again, they would find themselves facing not just the fury of House Atreides, but the wrath of dragons.

...

"They are twins. A boy and a girl."

You pause for a moment, letting his words hang in the still air of the room. The flickering light of the map display casts soft shadows on the stone walls of the Targaryen base, but neither of you pays attention to it.

"I know," you reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The calm acceptance in your tone belies the weight of the conversation.

Paul stares at the holographic projection, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. "I dream of them," he continues after a pause, his voice distant, as though he’s trying to make sense of the fragments that flit through his mind. "A brother and a sister. I see them sometimes, as if they’ve already lived. It’s strange... in another life, they would be something else to me entirely."

You turn your gaze toward him, studying the lines of thought etched into his face. There’s an understanding between the two of you—one born from shared experiences of visions, dreams, and glimpses of a future that might never come to pass. You’ve felt it too, the pull of a destiny that you’ve long learned to accept.

"I dreamt of them once as well," you admit. The memory of that fleeting vision stirs inside you, like an echo from another time. "But my dreams aren’t like yours."

Paul shifts slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to grasp something that remains just out of reach. "The Bene Gesserit always said my dreams were tied to their plans. But I see things they don’t. Paths they never considered." His voice trails off, and for a moment, it’s as though the two of you are standing at the crossroads of fate, caught between what is and what might be.

You nod slowly, understanding the complexity of his burden. You’ve always known the weight that comes with having visions, but Paul’s are unique—crafted by powers beyond anything you’ve encountered. It makes you wonder how much of this world is already written, and how much is still yours to shape.

Before either of you can speak again, Aelor strides into the room, his expression sharp with urgency. "The Harkonnens," he begins, his voice tight. "They seem very interested in the system of caverns not far from here."

You look up at him, immediately alert. "What kind of interest?"

"They've been surveying the area," Aelor replies. "It's close enough to the base that it’s making Maelor uneasy. We’re going to investigate."

You straighten, preparing to join them without hesitation. "Then I’m coming with you."

But Aelor shakes his head, his gaze firm. "No, you’re not. It's too dangerous, especially now. You need to stay here."

Your jaw tightens, irritation flaring at his overprotectiveness. "I'm not some helpless bystander. I can handle myself."

"I know you can," Aelor says, his tone softening, "but you have other things to think about now. You can't take unnecessary risks, especially with the child coming."

The weight of his words settles over you, though it’s not enough to quell the fire in your chest. You know he’s right—part of you understands that your role is shifting, that there are bigger responsibilities to consider. But another part of you, the part that grew up leading skirmishes with dragons, rebels against the idea of staying behind while others head into danger.

Paul watches the exchange quietly, sensing the tension between you and Aelor. His eyes flicker to you, sympathy in his gaze, though he says nothing.

Aelor steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Stay here," he says, quieter now. "We’ll handle it. We can’t afford to lose you, not now."

You nod reluctantly, knowing that arguing won’t change his mind. Aelor turns and heads toward the exit, leaving you and Paul in the dimly lit room, the tension still simmering.

"I wonder what they’re really after," Paul muses aloud, breaking the silence. He glances toward the map display, his thoughts shifting back to the broader conflict. "It’s never just about territory with the Harkonnens."

"No," you agree, your gaze following the same path. "It's always more than it seems."

...

The caverns beneath the Harkonnen control were dim and humid, the air thick with the stench of sweat and damp rock. Feyde-Rautha Harkonnen paced restlessly at the mouth of the cavern, his eyes flicking toward the deeper shadows as his men prepared for their next move. His mind was ablaze with thoughts of revenge, power, and glory. Arrakis was theirs to reclaim.

And then she appeared.

A flicker of red from the shadows caught his eye, and Feyde’s hand instinctively went to the blade at his hip. The Red Woman stepped into the cavern, her scarlet robes flowing like molten fire as she moved with a grace that seemed out of place in such a bleak and grim setting. Feyde’s men, hardened as they were, shifted uneasily. She had been in Emperor Shaddam’s custody, in the hands of the Sisterhood, and now she stood before them—free.

Feyde’s eyes narrowed. "You’re supposed to be in chains, priestess. How did you manage to slip away from the Emperor’s clutches?"

The Red Woman, her eyes glowing faintly with a strange fire, met his gaze without fear. "Chains are for those who serve without purpose. And I serve a power greater than any emperor or sisterhood."

Feyde sneered, stepping forward, his amusement barely contained. "A power greater than the Emperor? The Sardaukar will crush your Lord of Light as easily as they would crush a worm under their heel."

Her lips curled into a slight smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. "You’re dabbling in forces you don’t understand, Fayde Harkonnen. Your ambition blinds you. If your House does not turn away from this path, it will crumble into the dust of forgotten histories."

Feyde laughed, the sound echoing through the cavern. "Arrakis is ours. Shaddam was a fool to hand it to the Duke, even as part of his elaborate trap. We’ll reclaim it soon enough, and no mystic flames or prophecies will stop us."

The Red Woman’s eyes darkened, her voice taking on a weight that chilled the air around her. "The power of the spice... its time is coming to an end. No matter how much the old Houses cling to it, no matter how tightly the Guild tries to bind it to their will, its influence is fading. Something else is rising—something you cannot control. The currency of the universe will no longer be melange."

Feyde’s amusement soured into irritation, his patience wearing thin. He wasn’t one to waste time on mystical ramblings. "Enough," he snapped. "You’re nothing but a madwoman preaching doom and gloom. Kill her."

His men surged forward, weapons raised, eager to carry out the order. But the Red Woman didn’t flinch. She raised her hands, and in an instant, the cavern lit up with flames, swirling around her like a protective barrier. The heat was intense, pushing the soldiers back, their skin singed as the flames grew hotter.

"You will not see me die by your hands," she said calmly, her voice echoing through the chamber. "But know this, Feyde. Your time is running out."

Before Feyde could react, the flames roared higher, swallowing her figure completely. When they died down moments later, she was gone—vanished into thin air. The cavern was left in silence, save for the crackling embers that still clung to the rocky walls.

Feyde’s frustration boiled over, his face twisting into a snarl. He slammed his fist into the nearest rock wall, cursing under his breath. "Get back to work," he barked at his men. "We proceed as planned. I don’t care what that witch says—Arrakis will be ours again. The spice will continue to flow, and I’ll see to it personally."

As his soldiers scrambled to obey, Feyde turned his gaze toward the cavern's exit, his mind racing with thoughts of the Red Woman’s cryptic warning. He didn’t believe in her prophecies or her fiery theatrics, but something about her words left a nagging unease in the back of his mind.

Determined to shake it off, Feyde steeled himself, his jaw clenched with renewed focus. He would prove her wrong. The Harkonnens had always survived, always risen from the ashes of every defeat.

And this time would be no different.

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