Birth of Lysara
The birthing chamber on Wallach IX was a sanctum of shadow and spice, its obsidian walls etched with cryptic Bene Gesserit sigils. Dim melange-infused glowglobes cast an amber haze, flickering over the gathered sisters' solemn faces. The air thrummed with the scent of cinnamon and ozone, the signature of the spice that fueled the Sisterhood's prescience and power.
At the chamber's heart lay Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, her wiry frame stretched upon a birthing couch of woven plasteel and leather. Her breaths came in sharp, controlled bursts—each exhale a testament to her mastery over pain and fear. Surrounding her, a circle of Bene Gesserit adepts stood cloaked in black robes, their eyes glinting beneath shadowed hoods as they chanted the Litany Against Fear.
A taller adept stepped forward, her voice edged with unease. "Reverend Mother, the child comes swiftly. Her presence… it presses against the Other Memory even now."
Mohiam's hawk-like gaze snapped to the adept, silencing her with a look. "Presses? No. She is inevitable. Cease your trembling and assist me. The Sisterhood does not falter before the unknown."
A stillness descended—heavy, unnatural—as if time itself paused to witness the birth. The child emerged without the usual chaos of labor; no blood-slicked struggle, no primal wail. Instead, a low resonance filled the chamber, vibrating in the bones of every sister present, as though the infant's first breath drew power from the spice-saturated air.
"The eyes…" an adept whispered. "They burn with the blue-within-blue."
The infant's gaze was not the clouded stare of a newborn but the piercing scrutiny of one who saw—a gaze that stripped away pretense and laid bare the soul. Mohiam's lips parted in a rare blend of triumph and wariness. "The spice has marked her already," she murmured. "She carries the sight of the prescient. She will serve us well."
The child turned, fixing on the nearest sister. From her tiny mouth came a sound—soft, melodic, yet laced with the unmistakable timbre of the Voice.
"Be still."
The adept froze mid-motion, eyes wide with terror. She stumbled back as the compulsion released her, gasping for breath. A ripple of unease passed through the circle.
"An abomination!" hissed a younger sister.
"She is too potent. The breeding program was not meant to yield this," an older sister countered.
"Silence!" Mohiam's command cut through the rising tension. Forcing herself upright, she reached for the child, whose glowing eyes met hers, unyielding. "She is no error," Mohiam declared. "She is a necessity. A fulcrum. And like all fulcrums, she will bear the weight of our purpose."
"What name shall she bear, Reverend Mother?" a sister asked.
Mohiam studied the child, tracing the threads of the Sisterhood's millennia-long design. This was no ordinary offspring—she was engineered beyond the Kwisatz Haderach program's parameters, infused with melange so pure it bordered on sacrilege. A name must reflect her role as both harbinger and weapon.
"Lysara," Mohiam declared. "She shall be Lysara—'the blade of change'. She will carve our path through the storm to come."
Lysara's Training
Years unfurled within the austere halls of Wallach IX. Lysara grew at an unnatural pace, her mind and body outstripping human norms. By six, she stood as tall as a child twice her age, her movements eerily precise. Her luminous eyes remained a constant reminder of the spice's mark—a mark that went beyond mere addiction to something primal, almost divine.
In a stark training chamber, Mohiam loomed over Lysara, her presence a blade's edge. "Control," she intoned. "Power without it is a sandstorm—wild, destructive, useless. You must master yourself, Lysara, or you will be nothing."
Lysara tilted her head. "Why master what is mine by right?"
Mohiam's stride halted. "Possession is not mastery. The Voice is a tool, honed by discipline. Prescience is a gift, but without focus, it blinds as much as it reveals."
Lysara's lips curved faintly. "And if I wield them as I see fit, will you fear me then?"
Mohiam knelt before her, voice low. "Your power draws enemies—even within these walls. The Sisterhood tolerates you because I demand it. Defy me, and even I cannot shield you."
Silence stretched between them. Then Lysara closed her eyes, the glow dimming. The air thickened, charged with unseen force. Mohiam tensed.
"What are you doing?"
Lysara's eyes snapped open, brighter than before. "I am seeing."
The chamber shuddered. Figures materialized—ethereal, translucent, woven from memory. Men and women, their eyes mirroring Lysara's blue-within-blue, stepped forth. Echoes of the Other Memory. A tall man in a tattered robe lunged at Mohiam, his spectral hand striking her chest. A woman, wild-haired, gripped Mohiam's arm, her touch an icy burn.
"You chained us," one whispered. "You twisted us," hissed another.
Mohiam sank to one knee, the weight of their fury pressing against her will. "Lysara! End this now!" she roared.
The glow in Lysara's eyes dimmed. The figures wavered, dissolving into mist. Mohiam's breath came ragged as she rose.
"They hate you, Mother," Lysara said softly. "Should I heed them?"
Mohiam's voice was iron. "No. You will heed me."
Lysara's smile was faint, almost mocking. "I was learning."
Mohiam turned away. "Tomorrow, we resume. You will learn, or you will break."
The Bene Gesserit's Gamble
In the training chamber's dim light, Lady Jessica sat among the initiates, her poise impeccable. Mohiam's voice was a blade against the silence.
"The Kwisatz Haderach nears," Mohiam murmured later, alone with Jessica. "Our pinnacle. Our peril. If he defies us, we are lost."
Jessica's breath caught. "You'd set Lysara against him?"
"Yes," Mohiam said. "Her power rivals what he may become. If he strays, she is our blade to check him."
"And if she turns?" Jessica's voice was ice.
Mohiam's gaze was steel. "Then we may all burn."