The chamber on Wallach IX resembled a sietch—a cavern of stone and shadow. Its walls, worn by time, were adorned with tapestries illustrating the Missionaria Protectiva's sacred duties. A single melange lamp hung from the ceiling, its amber light spilling across the floor, where Lysara sat, her small form a silent figure amidst the vast, austere space. The air was thick with the scent of spice, a constant reminder of the Bene Gesserit's dominion over the precious substance that tied the universe together—spanning Fremen, Guild, and the Imperium.
At the far edge of the chamber, Lady Jessica stood, her black robes blending seamlessly with the gloom. Her posture was a study in Bene Gesserit discipline, her eyes sharp and unwavering as she observed the girl. Lysara, now seven years old, sat before an assortment of objects: a crysknife, carved from a sandworm's tooth; a thimble of spice essence; and a shard of plasteel inscribed with the runes of the Litany. Jessica had been summoned by Mohiam to witness Lysara's progress—perhaps even her peril.
The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
Lysara's voice broke the stillness, soft yet resonant, as if she were testing the very air itself. "The spice flows through me, Sister. Shall I show you what it reveals?"
Jessica hesitated, a flicker of unease unsettling her normally composed demeanor. She had learned to regard the girl's words with caution. "Proceed," she answered, her voice betraying none of her inner tension.
Lysara extended her hand, her fingers trembling faintly, a visible manifestation of her concentration. The crysknife wavered, then rose, hovering a handspan above the stone. The thimble followed suit, its amber contents rippling as though stirred by an invisible breeze. The plasteel shard joined the floating objects, spinning slowly in orbit around Lysara's palm. A deep hum vibrated through the chamber, emanating from the girl herself, a low resonance that set Jessica's teeth on edge.
Jessica's breath caught. This was no mere manipulation of the Weirding Way, no simple trick of muscle and will. Lysara's abilities reached deeper, resonating with the spice in a way that defied the Bene Gesserit's teachings. A thought flitted through Jessica's mind: Could this girl have tapped into the Fremen legends? The myths of Shai-Hulud's chosen ones who could wield the desert's power itself?
The objects began to accelerate, their orbits tightening. Lysara's eyes flared brighter, glowing with an intensity that cast jagged shadows on the walls. "I see paths," she murmured, her voice layered with an eerie multiplicity, as though the Other Memory itself spoke through her. "Threads of time, woven and unwoven. The Fremen wait in their sietches, their crysknives poised. The Guild navigates the void, blind to the storm. And you, Sister... you carry a seed."
Jessica stiffened, her prana-bindu calm fraying at the edges. She had already suspected this moment might come, but the certainty of Lysara's words made her skin crawl. "What seed?" she demanded, the question sharp with both fear and fascination.
Lysara's gaze snapped to hers, unblinking and unyielding. The objects crashed to the floor, the hum fading into silence. "Duke Leto's son," she said plainly, as if speaking of an inevitability. "You plan to defy the Sisterhood's design. You will bear him a male child, not the daughter they commanded. I see it in the currents—their plans are unspooled before me, and his shadow stretches across the sands of Arrakis."
Jessica's pulse quickened, her mind racing to conceal her thoughts. She had never shared her decision with Mohiam, nor with Leto. It had been a quiet rebellion—a silent, loving act of defiance against the cold calculations of the Bene Gesserit. How could Lysara know? "You overstep, child," she said, her voice laced with ice. "Prescience is a tool, not a license to pry."
Lysara tilted her head, a faint, almost knowing smile touching her lips. "I do not pry. The truth hums in the spice, louder than your secrets. Do it, Sister. Bear the son. He will be a storm, and I will dance in its winds."
The words hung between them, heavy with portent. Jessica stepped closer, searching Lysara's face, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. "Why encourage me?" she asked, her voice low. "The Sisterhood would see it as betrayal. Mohiam would—"
"Mohiam fears me more than she fears you," Lysara interrupted smoothly, her tone cold and measured. "She shaped me to counter the Kwisatz Haderach, but she cannot see all ends. Your son... he will be part of the pattern. I want to meet him, to test my edge against his."
Jessica sank to one knee, leveling her eyes with Lysara's. The girl's certainty unnerved her, but in this moment, there was a strange kinship between them—a shared defiance against the Sisterhood's narrow vision. "You speak of him as if he's already born," Jessica said softly, her voice betraying the flicker of hope she dared not acknowledge. "What else do you see?"
Lysara's glow dimmed slightly as her expression turned inward. Her eyes clouded with the weight of her vision. "Sand and blood. A golden lion falls. The Fremen rise, their stillsuits gleaming under two moons. And a voice—a man's voice—calling from the desert. He is… like me, but not me. His eyes burn as mine do."
Jessica's breath caught, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. The image of the Fremen rising, a golden lion falling—of a man's voice—was unmistakably familiar. Paul. The name lingered in her mind, unbidden, a whisper of the future she dared not fully imagine. She reached out, her hand hovering over Lysara's shoulder before settling there, her fingers trembling with the weight of her own forbidden knowledge. "You're experimenting with powers you don't fully grasp," she said. "This vision—can you control it?"
Lysara's smile returned, sharp and knowing. "Control is Mohiam's word, not mine. I feel the spice, Sister. It sings to me, and I answer. Watch."
She closed her eyes, and the air thickened. A shimmer began to form before them—a mirage of Arrakis, its endless dunes rolling beneath the harsh light of twin suns. Figures appeared, indistinct, cloaked in the familiar stillsuits of the Fremen. A sandworm breached the surface, its massive body undulating through the sand like a leviathan. The vision shifted, the landscape fading to reveal Duke Leto, standing tall atop a cliff, his hawkish features set in determination. At his side, a child, eyes blue-within-blue, looked out across the desert.
Jessica gasped, pulling back as the vision dissolved. "Enough, Lysara. You draw too much—too fast."
Lysara opened her eyes, unfazed by the interruption. "Did I frighten you, Sister? Or did I show you what you needed to see?"
Jessica rose, her composure regaining its grip, but her mind was a whirl of confusion. "You showed me a possibility," she said quietly. "But the future is not fixed. Even the prescient can err."
Lysara nodded slowly, as if conceding the point. "Then confide in me, Sister. Why risk Mohiam's wrath for a son?"
Jessica hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Because I love him—Leto. The Sisterhood sees him as a tool, as a stepping stone in their breeding program. But he is more than that to me. A son... a son could be his legacy, not just theirs. And perhaps... perhaps he could be more than the Kwisatz Haderach they plan."
Lysara's gaze softened, a flicker of humanity breaking through the otherworldly aura that surrounded her. "Love," she mused, her voice distant, "a strange thread in the weave. I don't feel it as you do, but I understand its pull. Bear your son, Jessica. I'll guard your secret—for now."
Jessica studied her, torn between gratitude and suspicion. "Why help me? What do you gain?"
Lysara rose, her small frame radiating quiet menace. "I gain an ally. Mohiam thinks me a weapon to wield, but I am no one's tool. Your son will shift the balance, and when he does, I'll be there—not as a pawn, but as a player."
The chamber fell silent once more, the weight of their unspoken agreement settling like dust after a storm. Jessica nodded, a pact forged in the shadows of Wallach IX, even as the greater game of the Imperium—House Corrino, the Landsraad, the Spacing Guild—continued to churn outside these walls. And on Arrakis, the Fremen waited, their prophecies planted by the Missionaria Protectiva stirring deep in the desert sands.
Lysara turned, her voice a whisper that sent chills down Jessica's spine. "The game begins, Sister. Let's see who masters it."
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