Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The palace of Arrakeen hid like a petrified tumor in the middle of the desert, consumed by a perpetual night that did not obey the passing of the sun. There, darkness was not the absence of light, but a hungry, viscous will that clung to the skin and entered through the ears like a persistent whisper.

Despite the rumors, timeless curses, unexplained disappearances, spirits that spoke in dreams with ancient tongues. Irulan Corrino had not been able to resist. That architectural aberration, hidden among the sands of Arrakis, was more than a vestige: it was a living scar in the history of a lineage. And she, as a historian, as a Corrino, had to face it. Even if it meant looking straight into the eyes of a darkness that still throbbed.

But what began as academic curiosity twisted, little by little, into a living nightmare, with bones, hunger, and memory.

At first, everything seemed normal. Five researchers. Animated voices. Meticulous records. The murmur of data, theories, speculations. The promise of an extraordinary discovery.

Then, the noises.

Subtle at first: muffled footsteps in closed corridors, half-open doors they never remembered touching, echoes that refused to fade. Slow breaths where there were no bodies. Then, the whispers. They didn’t speak—they crawled.

Then, they began to disappear.

First one. Then another. No blood. No traces. No screams. Only a kind of thick silence, as if something had swallowed the sound before the body. As if the palace had absorbed them, digested them, spat them out on the other side of time. All that remained was a nauseating sensation in the air. A smell of copper, old incense, and burned skin.

Irulan tried to flee. But the corridors no longer led to the same doors. The windows no longer showed the desert, but a black, unmoving sky where the stars hung like open eyes. Watchful.

And then came the room.

It was alien to the rest of the building, as if it had been grafted there from another time, another dimension. A bright room, pristine to the point of sickness. No dust. No smell. Only a temperature that dropped with each step, until it made her bones ache. And in the center, like a macabre altar, a glass case.

Inside, a woman.

Tall. Motionless. Not asleep, not dead, not alive. Pale brown skin, as if death had touched her and then left her incomplete. Dark red hair in static curls, like serpents frozen in motion. Beneath her feet, a plaque corroded by tears or acid:

CHANI

Irulan felt nauseous. A visceral vertigo. Something in her mind cracked. That rigid beauty was wrong, abominable. A warning disguised as art.

She turned to flee, but the world closed behind her.

She bumped into something.

No—someone.

Motionless. Solid like a stiffened corpse. Cold as metal exposed to the void.

—Looks like you're lost, princess —said the voice, low and deep, with the cadence of an echo buried centuries ago. Its tone was soft, but each word left a wound.

Irulan looked up.

And reality shattered.

In front of her, like a vision taken from the cursed books of her childhood, stood him: dressed in black, as if mourning were his second skin. Ancient gold adorned the seams, in symbols she did not recognize but that hurt to look at. His face... was violently beautiful. Red, inhuman eyes. Dark, curly hair like burnt roots. And the smile... twisted, cruel. Blood still glistened on his lower lip.

Irulan froze.

—Paul... —she whispered, breathless.

It couldn’t be. Duke Paul Atreides, dead for millennia. His bloodline extinguished. The legends painted him as a hero, a prophet, a messiah, a demon. Irulan had seen ancient images, barely restored... and that face was identical.

She tried to run, but he caught her effortlessly, pulling her with supernatural strength. The contact was freezing. His chest against hers. Motionless. His breath, if it could be called that smelled of sealed earth, of a tomb.

—So you know my face —he murmured next to her ear—. Pretty... and curious. A delicious combination.

Irulan trembled. Not from the cold. Not only from that. There was something in his voice, something ancient and cruel, like a whisper that had survived all human languages.

—I’ve waited centuries for your return. —His voice was a dagger crawling through flesh.

The fangs were now visible, white and long, but it was his gaze that terrified her: there was desire there, yes, but it wasn’t human. It was the desire of something that has waited so long, it has forgotten how to hold back.

He took her chin. Forced her to look at him.

—Pretty —Paul continued, slowly sliding his fingers down her cheek, then down her exposed neck—. I like your eyes. They look like a doe’s... just before the hunter catches her.

Irulan swallowed, her skin bristling.

—What are you...? —she asked with a trembling voice.

—What do you think I am? —Paul laughed, shamelessly licking the trace of blood on his lower lip—. A myth? A memory? A monster?

She didn’t know how to answer.

Paul pushed her against one of the red velvet-padded walls. His lips almost touched hers, yet he lingered. The fangs in full view, the desire gleaming in his crimson eyes.

Irulan definitely felt this was her end. And then, an impact.
An arrow struck his chest with a dull thud.

Paul didn’t scream. He just looked down, curious. As if bitten by an insect. The arrow quivered, lodged in his bloodless flesh.

—Irulan, run!— Irulan snapped back to herself at the sound of one of her fellow researchers. She ran away from Paul, with her companion behind her. Trying to escape.

The walls were closing in, the entire palace seemed to breathe.
But Paul... Paul caught up to them.

She didn’t see him. She felt him.

Her companion’s scream was brutal. Short. Final.

Irulan wanted to scream, but she stumbled. Her foot twisted, something cracked. She fell down a staircase that never seemed to end. Every impact was a macabre bell toll.

At the end, her body was twisted. Her vision was a tunnel full of shadows.

And just before she lost consciousness, Paul was there again. Leaning in. As if he had never left.
His red eyes glowed more intensely than ever.

And he smiled.

As if he had finally caught her.

Everything went dark.
And the palace swallowed her.

---

Irulan woke with a sharp pain in her head, as if something had drilled directly into her skull. A dull buzzing echoed in her ears, and for a second, she didn’t know if she was alive, dead, or trapped in some feverish nightmare.

The room was... strange. Too clean. Too perfect. The walls were covered in dark wallpaper with golden edges faded by time, patterned in floral designs that seemed to writhe if stared at too long. Lit candles flickered with a motionless flame, as if even fire obeyed different rules here. The air smelled of old incense, dried flowers, confinement.

And she...

She no longer wore her coat, or her pants, or her explorer’s boots.
In their place, she wore a dress from another century: long, tight at the waist, in shades of deep blue and dark green that made her paleness stand out. The fabric was fine, delicate, almost ethereal... and it wasn’t hers.

She was barefoot.
The skin of her feet touched a plush carpet, the color of dry wine, that seemed to absorb the warmth from her body.

She sat up clumsily, heart pounding. Everything felt... too quiet.
Too contained. As if the room were suspended in an eternal instant.

Who changed my clothes?
The question settled in her mind with a visceral chill. Her body... her body had been touched. Manipulated. Exposed while she was unconscious.

Panic crept down her spine. She brought her hands to her chest. The dress fit her perfectly. Tailored. How long had she been asleep? How long had he watched her?

She stood with difficulty, staggering. The curtains, heavy as coffins, let in a whitish, unreal light. Outside, there were no landscapes. Only fog.

An old mirror hung in front of the bed. She looked at herself.

And what she saw... wasn’t quite her.

The dress wrapped around her like a second skin, but it felt comfortable, right. She couldn’t remember how she looked in her own clothes. As if that belonged to another life.

—It suits you —said a voice behind her.

Irulan turned sharply, a knot of ice in her throat.

Paul was sitting in a dark armchair, with an old book in his hands. She hadn’t heard him enter. Hadn’t felt him. But he was there. As if he had always been.

His red eyes watched her calmly. Patient. Like an entomologist watching how his prey adapts to the cage.

—Where am I? —she asked, her voice hoarse, broken.

—You’re in your room —he replied, closing the book without taking his eyes off her—. Or you will be, once you finish remembering.

—Remember what?

Paul smiled. He stood. His steps made no sound.

—What you were. What you were always meant to be.

Irulan stepped back, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She couldn’t find the door. Only walls. Mirrors. Silence.

—I don’t want to be here.

—That’s the wonderful thing —he said, stopping in front of her, so close she could feel his breath—. No one wants to be in Arrakeen. No one enters by choice. Only the chosen... return.

Irulan felt something stir inside her chest. It wasn’t fear. Or not just fear. It was as if her body had begun to respond to a voice that didn’t come from her.

Paul raised a hand and placed it on her cheek. Cold. Soft. Mortal.

—This dress belonged to you... centuries ago —he murmured—. Do you remember now?

Irulan felt dizzy. The candles flickered more intensely.
And for a moment... for just a second, her reflection in the mirror changed.

She was no longer herself. She was someone else. Same face, same body... but different. The eyes were very green, completely angry. And the figure behind her, Paul had blue eyes like a very precious gem.

She blinked. Everything returned to normal.
Or did it?

Irulan hugged herself.

—You are not in the past —said Paul, tilting his head—. You are in the space between history and memory. Here, souls do not die... they only rot slowly.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t anymore.

The dress squeezed her. The air was becoming denser.
The room was watching her.

She was lost. Every thought was a broken thread in the loom of her sanity. The darkness surrounding her was not merely the absence of light, it was a living, throbbing entity that whispered her name from the cracks in the walls. The air weighed like ash, and the palace seemed to breathe in rhythm with her, as if it, too, was waiting... for something.

She wanted to run, to close her eyes and wake far away from all of this: from the damp marble, from the shadows crawling across the ceilings, from the searing gaze she felt pinned to her back. She wanted to forget the lifeless bodies of her companions, the way they had withered in seconds, drained like rotten fruit.

But before she could take a step or gather coherent thoughts, a brutal pull shattered reality. The atmosphere cracked with a dry, almost inaudible sound, and in a blink, Irulan was ripped from the floor, from herself, and taken to another part of the room.

Now she was seated on his lap, like a porcelain doll, trapped between his immortal arms.

Paul’s eyes were not human. They were two burning embers in an alabaster skull.

—I’ve waited too long —he murmured, and his voice was not a whisper: it was a vibration in the bones, a command to the universe—. I had you once. And I lost you for centuries. This time I won’t let your soul go.

His hand tangled in Irulan’s golden hair with a roughness that was almost tender. He pulled her head back, leaving her neck exposed, vulnerable, defenseless.

—You shouldn’t look at me like that —he said with a withered smile, darkened by ancient desire—. You make me forget what’s left of human in me.

The bite came like lightning.

A wet crunch. A white, perfect pain that pierced flesh, nerves, time.

Paul’s fangs sank into her neck with lethal precision. She gasped, surprised, but the sound died in her throat. It was all heat and ice at the same time. A deep, shameless suction. He wasn’t just taking her blood, but something more: memories, emotions, her prayers.

The world bent.

Irulan’s vision trembled, the walls rippled as if breathing. The pleasure —terrible, impossible, shameful— leaked into her belly with each pulse, making her shudder in his arms.

Paul barely pulled away, lips stained red.

—Delicious —he whispered against her ear, as if telling her a profane secret—. As always. My wife.

His tongue devoutly licked a drop sliding down her collarbone.

The word “wife” pierced her more than the fangs.

Irulan parted her lips but couldn’t utter a word. The cold invaded her, life slipped like water through her fingers, the dizziness in her body kept her from grasping the gravity of the confession.
Irulan could only surrender, trapped between the fog of pain and the unsettling tenderness of the monster possessing her.

Paul didn’t stop. Not completely.

He did stop drinking, yes. He parted his fangs with a satisfied sigh, slowly licked the wound on her neck while Irulan’s world wobbled like a candle on the verge of extinguishing. Her body was weak, trembling, and yet he held her gently, with a tenderness far more terrifying than any violence.

He settled her against his chest as if she were a sleeping creature, curling her onto him without ceasing to keep her seated in his lap. A soft prison, made of arms and murmurs.

His long, cold fingers began tangling in her golden hair, stroking it devoutly.

—Shhh... —he whispered, as if calming a restless child—. Just rest, you don’t have to run anymore.

And then he began to hum.

A low, ancient melody, almost note-less. Like a dragging lament.
Paul’s voice was deep, soft, and yet every vibration seemed to slip into the darkest folds of her mind. It was a wordless song, but Irulan knew it. Or felt that she did.

A memory crossed her consciousness like a lightning bolt:

A different room. Another bed. Another life. Paul, younger... and her too. A version of both, as remote as a dream. The same melody. Hummed among shadows.
Was it a planted illusion? Or a real memory that had always been there?

Irulan trembled. Her body did not respond, her mind wanted to scream, but something stronger numbed her.
Paul’s voice rocked her, held her.
Wrapped her.

—Do you remember it? —he murmured beside her ear, with the same voice you use when asking about a shared secret—. You used to sing it to me when I could still sleep.

His words fell on her like hot ash.

Irulan felt something break inside her chest. She didn’t know if it was a false memory, an echo from another soul... or if somehow there was something older in her. Something Paul was awakening.

She didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t.

But the song continued.
And deep in her mind, she began humming it too. Without knowing why.
Unable to stop.

---

The second time Irulan opened her eyes, she did so with more clarity.

The fog of dizziness had dissipated. Her body was still weak, but she was no longer the inert doll she had been before. She was awake.
And Paul knew it. He still held her in his lap, holding her with a stillness that chilled the blood. As if he were part of the furniture, as if he were part of the place now. As if she no longer belonged to her.

The melody he had been humming had ceased, but its echo persisted in the corners of her mind, in the padded walls, in her chest.

Then, the door opened with a soft creak.

A figure entered, dressed in simple brown fabrics embroidered with ancient motifs. Irulan blinked.
For a moment, she thought she saw the woman from the display case: Chani.

But it wasn’t her.

This woman was shorter, younger, with similar, almost identical features, but softened by submission. She had the same reddish hair, though duller, and the same brown skin, but without the ghostly glow she had seen in the preserved figure.

The woman completely avoided Irulan’s eyes. She walked with soft, unwavering steps, as if trained to leave no trace. She carried a tray with hot food, which she placed on a nearby table without looking at anyone but Paul.

Then, without raising her head, she bowed deeply before him.

—Muad’Dib... —she whispered with a soft, reverent voice. The sound had something ceremonial. It was not a greeting. It was a prayer.

Paul nodded slightly, with a smile Irulan couldn’t tell if it was pride or sadness.

The woman backed away, never turning her back on Paul, and the door closed behind her with a slight whisper of air, like a held breath.

Silence.

Irulan turned her head toward him, still sitting in his lap. The bluish-green dress had adjusted to her body like a second skin. She felt it... strange. As if she hadn’t received it, but recovered it.

—Who was that? —she asked in a low voice, as if afraid the answer might break something inside her.

—A daughter —Paul replied, without looking at the tray—. From another life. From an echo.

Irulan frowned at him.

—From Chani?

Paul didn’t answer immediately. He simply looked at the fireworks in the fireplace, which seemed to burn without giving off heat.

—Everyone here is part of what remained. Some remember more than others. Some only obey.

Irulan swallowed. She felt trapped in a glass box, alive and awake, but alien to her own will. Trapped in a story written before she was born.

—What are you doing to me...?

Paul finally looked at her again. His expression was soft. Unsettling. As if he didn’t see a prisoner, but a fulfilled promise.

—Nothing you haven’t allowed before, Irulan.

She shuddered.

—Come on, eat. You must stay nourished, princess —Paul said with a soft, almost affectionate voice, while stroking her hair with his cold fingers.

Irulan tensed. She hated how that word sounded on his lips: not as a title, but as a chain.

The tray of food still sat on the low table in front of them, filling the cold air of the room with its sweet, spiced aroma. There was freshly baked bread, a steaming soup of dark golden color, something that looked like meat in sauce... and a glass of red liquid that Irulan didn’t dare to identify.

Paul helped her sit up slightly on his lap, still not allowing her to get down. He kept her close, as if he feared she would disappear if he let go.
Or as if he never planned to let her go.

—You don’t have to be afraid —he whispered, his mouth very close to her ear—. I swear nothing here wants to hurt you.

Irulan felt her skin prickling. The contradiction in those words was so obvious it hurt. Everything here was harm disguised as care. He himself was a knife wrapped in velvet.

—What did you do to me before? —she asked, looking at the glass warily. Her voice barely trembled, but she held herself steady.

Paul looked at her with interest, as if he liked seeing her react. As if every show of will was a small private spectacle.

—Only what was necessary to make you rest. Your body was... altered. Broken. But no longer. Now you’re here. Whole.

She frowned, barely turning her face to look at him.

—Here... where?

He smiled. He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took a piece of bread, broke it with his hands, dipped it in the soup... and brought it to her lips.

—Trust me, Irulan. You need strength. You haven’t yet seen what lies beneath the palace.

Irulan swallowed. Her stomach growled, treacherous. She was hungry. Weak. Humiliated by her own body. The food smelled good, too good... as if someone had cooked exactly what she longed for without knowing it.

She hesitated.

And Paul waited.

His gaze fixed on hers, with that mix of infinite patience and repressed longing. As if he knew she was going to give in. As if she already had.

Finally, Irulan parted her lips. Just a little.

Paul gave her the first bite. He fed her himself, gently, as if caring for something precious.
Or as if training her. Breaking her with acts of false tenderness.

The taste was exquisite. Too much. Each bite seemed to revive her nerves. Her heart beat faster. Her cheeks flushed.

—That is... —Paul murmured, leaving a slow kiss on her forehead—. I need you strong for what is to come.

Irulan didn’t want to ask what that coming thing was.

Because a part of her feared the answer was already beating inside her.
Like a buried seed.
Like a memory she still didn’t dare to awaken.

---

Paul did not leave her side all day.
He didn’t move much. Didn’t need to. He was just there, like a permanent shadow, like an anchor fixed in her reality.
His presence filled everything: the air, the corners, even her thoughts. As if he breathed inside her head.

Irulan had hoped, wished that at some point he would get up, leave the room, leave her alone even for a few minutes. But no. Every time she tried to slip out of his lap stealthily, he simply tightened his arm around her waist and held her back, without violence... but with a firmness that clearly said: you’re not going anywhere.

And now, after having eaten, she felt her stomach heavy and her body too warm, but not from pleasure... but from confinement. From the oppression of knowing she was watched, touched, possessed without choice.

He gently caressed her belly with a pale hand, as if recognizing her from the inside. As if cultivating something in her.

Irulan couldn’t take it anymore.

—Don’t you have things to do? —she asked with a tense, uncomfortable tone, her body stiff over his.

Paul smiled without opening his eyes. His fingers continued the same movement, a slow caress that made her nerves tingle.

—I have nothing to do, princess —he replied in a low voice, as if telling her a secret—. I am a man who has lived centuries... I’ve had enough time to finish everything I was supposed to do.

Irulan shuddered.

The tone was not aggressive. But there, in those words, was something terribly final.
As if time, for him, no longer existed.
As if she were now his only purpose.

Her breathing became faster. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear off the dress. Wanted to escape, run, find a window, a hallway, a real door.
But she didn’t dare. Not yet.
Not while he looked at her like that. Not while he touched her as if he had already dreamed her a thousand times.

—So... are you going to stay here all day? —she insisted, her voice breaking a little, her anxiety bubbling up like dirty water through cracks.

Paul opened his eyes.

His crimson pupils shone with a soft, almost hypnotic light.

—Is there any more important place I should be... than with you?

His words had no threatening tone. But they were. Like everything about him.

Irulan lowered her gaze.
And for a second, she swore she heard a female voice, her own voice from some corner of the room, whispering one word:

“Run.”

Even if Paul wasn’t going to move from her side, Irulan wouldn’t give up.
She wasn’t going to rot among velvet cushions and eternal gazes.
She wasn’t going to allow this room which already seemed to breathe at her pace to become her coffin.

She took a deep breath, swallowing her fear like a stone, and raised her voice with the best polite smile she could muster.

—I want to go out. Upon entering your palace, I caught sight that you had a library...
—she paused so her words sank in—. I would love to go.

There was a glimmer of hope in her request. If she managed to get Paul to agree... maybe, just maybe, she could start studying the palace’s structure. Find hallways. Stairs. Exits.

Paul didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, as if reading beyond words, as if hearing the echo of every thought. His hand still stroked her waist with maddening calm. As if training her for obedience.

Finally, he spoke:

—You may go... —he said with a calm, almost paternal smile— when your ankle is fully healed.

Irulan blinked.

Ankle.

Immediately she looked down at her right leg.

Until that moment, she hadn’t felt any pain. Neither upon waking nor standing up. She had been weak, yes, but hadn’t limped or noticed any discomfort.
And yet...

Now that she saw it, her ankle looked bad.
Purple. Swollen. Tight as if about to burst.
As if something had just awakened in it now.

Irulan extended her hand in disbelief and touched it with her fingers.
A sharp, stabbing pain ran up her leg.
Had it always been like that? Or had he done it without her noticing?

—But... —she murmured, throat dry— I didn’t feel this before...

—Didn’t you? —Paul tilted his head with false surprise, as if he had no idea—. Sometimes, the body delays pain when the soul is busy with other things.

The phrase was ambiguous. Ambiguous and cruel.

Irulan felt her hope wither like a flower submerged in poison.
That ankle, if it was real, if it wasn’t an induced illusion, another of his games, would take time to heal. Weeks, maybe. And all that time...
she would be with him. Locked up. Fed. Watched.

—I’ll take care of you —added Paul, as if reading her anguish with poisoned tenderness—. You’ll see how you improve.
And when you do... you can have all the knowledge you want.

He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, and his red eyes shone with more than satisfaction. With certainty. As if he already knew she wouldn’t last that long.

—After all —he murmured— the library is yours too, don’t you remember?

Irulan closed her eyes.

No.
She didn’t remember.

Irulan was beginning to believe this guy was insane, that he was confusing her with someone else.

---

At some point during the day, without Irulan exactly remembering how, as if time dissolved between her fingers whenever Paul was near, they had moved to the bed.

A bed too large. Too ornate.
The tall posts of dark carved wood rose like columns of an imperial tomb, and the green velvet canopy seemed to weigh tons above their heads, as if enclosing not only the bed, but the fate they now shared.

Even the sheets were uncomfortable, not because of their texture, they were soft, too soft but because of what they represented.
Too perfect. Too clean. Too prepared.
Irulan didn’t need to guess how many women had slept there before. Or how many had stayed.

Paul was behind her, on the same bed, like a patient demon. He no longer had her on his lap, but his closeness still crushed her.
His legs stretched out on either side of Irulan’s body.
His breath too close to her neck.
And in his hands... a brush.

An old one, made of ivory with dark bristles. Every movement was slow, careful.
Almost ritualistic.

Irulan felt every tug, every caress on her scalp, like a reminder that she was not free. That she was, little by little, being reduced to something... tamed.

—You have beautiful hair —Paul said in a low voice, without apparent emotion, as if speaking to himself—. Lighter than in my memory. But just as soft.

Irulan clenched her jaw.

In his memory?

He said it like he had done this before.
Like this moment wasn’t new.
Like he was repeating a scene only he remembered.

—Did you do this too with... her? —Irulan asked, unable to help herself. She didn’t want to seem nosy, but the name burned on her tongue: Chani.

Paul didn’t answer immediately. His fingers now slid between the blonde strands, parting them with obsessive precision.

—No —he said at last, in a deep voice—. Chani wouldn’t let me brush her. She couldn’t stand it. Said it was a waste of time. She preferred the wind to do it for her.

A pause.

—You, on the other hand, always let me. You used to close your eyes and stay still. Sometimes you’d fall asleep.

Irulan felt a shiver run down her spine.

—I have never done that —she whispered.

—Are you sure? —Paul asked with a smile she couldn’t see but felt—. There are many lives we forget... before returning to the right one.

A tense silence settled between them.

Irulan’s gaze was fixed on the canopy.
She felt every heartbeat pounding in her temples.
The brush kept sliding.

And in the old mirror opposite the bed covered by a gray veil she swore she saw, for a fraction of a second, another woman sitting in her place.
One with shinier hair.
And eyes... identical to hers.

---

Irulan had fallen asleep.

Just like before.

Her body, still warmed by the food, had slowly relaxed under the steady rhythm of the brush sliding through her hair. And now, in that vast, silent bed, she lay quietly, cradled between the crimson shadows of the canopy, her face turned toward him. Sleep softened her features, erasing the distrust from her eyes, the stiffness from her shoulders.

Paul watched her.
Devoured her with his gaze.

A slow smile, like a wound reopening, bloomed on his lips.
He had done it again.
She had fallen asleep while he brushed her hair.
Just like so many times before.

—You don’t change... —he whispered, barely audible, more to himself than to her.

The brush now rested between his fingers, inert, like a sacred relic. The room was so silent he could hear the faint sound of his breathing, the slow beats of his heart, pounding beneath that warm skin he would soon recognize again.

His Empress.

Paul still couldn’t believe it entirely.

After centuries —dark, endless centuries marked by hunger, loss, and the repetition of useless wars— she was back. Irulan, the one and only. His only beautiful curse.

She was in his palace, in his bed, in his arms.
Where she had always belonged.

He had counted every day, every season, every moon. He knew she would return, he had seen it.

The visions had kept him standing when his soul turned to stone, when the taste of blood ceased to bring comfort, when the echo of Chani stopped haunting him and only Irulan’s remained. She, with her strange light. With her eyes full of questions. With her inability to truly escape him, no matter how hard she tried.

Because that was her curse.

Hers: to be reborn again and again. Always different, but always the same. Always resisting, until finally she remembered. Remembered the first life, the war where she overthrew her father, Shaddam, her political marriage, the betrayal, the indifference, the surrender... the love.

And he... He was condemned to wait.
To see her die, to see her be born, to find her, and to force her to remember.

—You don’t know who you are yet —Paul whispered, leaning in to brush his lips against her sleeping forehead—. But you will. You will, my love.

He ran his fingers over her cheek with ghostly delicacy, as if afraid to break her. As if she were made of glass... or memory.

—You’re almost hearing the music... you’re almost remembering the fire.
And when you do...
you won’t hate me for holding you back.

His smile widened, but his eyes were empty, broken from so much waiting.

—Because you always choose to stay.

And then, Paul brushed her hair again. Like a rite, like a spell, as if by repeating it he awakened the invisible threads of time.

Clinging to that moment, as perfect and cruel as everything he had ever loved.

Chapter Text

It had only been a day.

One damn day.
And she already felt like she was going insane.

Irulan opened her eyes slowly, with the sensation that her body didn’t entirely belong to her. She had slept. Again. How many hours? How many minutes? Everything felt like a thick fog. She only knew it was morning now. Another light. Another day trapped.

The room looked exactly the same… except Paul wasn’t there.

Thank all the historical gods and the ones that didn’t exist. He wasn’t there, like some damn immortal stalker.
Watching her sleep.

Just thinking about it made her skin crawl.

What if he had been? What if he’d stayed there all night, breathing like he was human, watching her like she belonged to him?

Irulan shot upright in bed, her heart pounding.

The silence was worse than his presence.
Because the room still felt alive.

It felt claustrophobic. Like every inch of the wallpaper was breathing with her, like the bed knew her, like the walls whispered when she wasn’t looking.
Since the first time she woke up there, she knew it. That feeling of having been there before. Not a simple déjà vu—no. Something deeper, more rooted, like part of her soul had been trapped between those sheets centuries ago.

But it couldn’t be. It made no sense.
She was from Kaitain, born to academic parents. Her whole life had been books, museums, dusty archives. She had never been to Arrakeen before this expedition.

And yet...

She hugged herself, feeling a cold shiver run down her arms.
What if it wasn’t her body that knew the room… but something deeper?

She shook her head, trying to find a logical way out.

But then she noticed it.
Again.

The clothes.

She was no longer wearing the greenish-blue dress from the night before. Now it was lavender.
Same cut, same fabric, same ridiculously elegant style that looked like it came straight out of a porcelain dollhouse. Just a different color.

—That bastard changed me again while I slept… —she muttered to herself, rubbing her arms.

Her mind started racing with unpleasant thoughts.
Had he seen her naked?
Had he touched her?
Did he talk to her while she slept? Comb her hair, dress her, whisper to her like she was a broken doll from another life?

The thought made her clench her teeth.

No. She wasn’t going to sit there waiting another night. She wasn’t going to let her sanity dissolve like sugar in water.

She got out of bed, limping slightly from her ankle, and began to search the room with barely contained fury. She was determined. If Paul wasn’t there, she’d do something.
She’d look for windows, cracks, a damn knife if necessary.

Because if she was already losing her mind, she was at least going to do it fighting.

---

The windows were sealed.

Irulan discovered it after inspecting each one in desperation, pushing hard against the cold frames, searching for a crack, a hidden mechanism that might offer an escape, but no, it was useless. They didn’t even seem designed to open. They were perfectly fitted, as if they were just decoration, a cruel illusion of freedom.

And even if she had managed to force them open, what good would it have done? Outside, there were only dunes, an endless ocean of sand that seemed to swallow the entire horizon and worst of all, the height. When she looked out, Irulan realized her room was located at the top of a narrow tower, so high and distant from the ground that dizziness hit her immediately. She understood, with horror, that if she jumped, the only thing waiting for her would be death.

That wasn’t an accident. Paul had locked her there deliberately, as if she were a museum piece—something precious, but also fragile and vulnerable. Something that had to be kept far away from everything.

Frustrated, Irulan stepped back, breathing heavily, feeling the air inside the room grow thicker and heavier, as if every passing second stripped another piece of her sanity away.

No, she wouldn’t stay there as a willing prisoner. She wouldn't let despair consume her. So she turned slowly toward the door, the only possible exit, and placed her hand on the doorknob.

It was open.

Paul hadn’t locked it. Maybe out of arrogance, maybe because he thought she wouldn’t dare leave, or maybe because he didn’t care, he’d just catch her again.

With a dull click, the door opened, and a gust of air colder than the room’s rushed in around her. The hallway beyond stretched out long and dark, lit here and there by old candelabras holding open flames, too alive, too fresh, as if someone had lit them only minutes ago.

Irulan stepped forward, moving slowly and carefully, the sharp pain in her ankle flaring with each step, but she refused to stop. She leaned on the stone walls to keep her balance.

The silence was absolute. So absolute that her own footsteps felt too loud, almost offensive.
But she wasn’t alone.

She knew it when she started to hear another echo.

It wasn’t hers, it couldn’t be. It was… identical, yes, but independent. As if someone else was walking at the exact same rhythm, behind her, beside her, just out of sight. And yet, every time she stopped, that other step stopped too.

She turned her head, but there was no one.

The walls remained mute, the candelabras still burning, the corridors a maze of closed doors and shadows that seemed to stretch beyond the physical.

That’s when she saw it.

A door, half-open, more discreet than the rest, lacking the excessive ornamentation of the palace’s other doors.

Something was coming from inside.

A soft scent, sweet, subtle… lavender.

Irulan’s heart skipped a beat. That smell… she knew it.
Her legs trembled, but she didn’t stop. She moved toward the door, pulse racing, lips dry, as if something deep inside her already knew exactly what she was about to find.

She reached out her hand.

She was going to open that door, even if her fingers trembled.

The door opened with a long creak, like an old sigh trapped for centuries, and the scent of lavender intensified, flooding Irulan’s senses with a feeling that was both sweet and deeply unsettling. The room was small, round—almost like a hidden niche in the stone walls. The light was dim, filtered through silk veils hanging from the ceiling, and in the center, on a worn carpet…

A little girl played in silence.

She looked about four years old, with dark, thick hair that curled down her back like Chani’s.

And then Irulan saw them. The dolls.

All lined up in front of the girl. All with blonde hair—too blonde, too identical to her own.

A chill ran down Irulan’s spine, but before she could say anything, her own voice got ahead of her, as if someone else were speaking through her throat.

—Ghanima…

The word came out on its own, warm and familiar. But why? How did she know that name? And even stranger: the girl looked up at that exact moment, her ice-blue eyes locking onto Irulan’s green ones, recognizing her. She smiled, not shyly, but with tenderness. With love.

And then… the girl blinked… and she was no longer a child.

She was a woman.

The same woman who had brought her food the day before. Shorter than Chani, but with that same ethereal air, the same eyes. She was still there, in the exact same position, as if nothing had changed. As if the passage of time was simply a matter of choice.

Irulan screamed, not a long, dramatic cry. It was short, choked, dry. A pure sound of confusion and terror.

Where was the girl?
Where was Ghanima?

The blue eyes were still fixed on her. Not with aggression, nor threat, but with an ancient sadness. Irulan took a step back, trembling, her ankle aching, but before she could ask a single question…

She felt an arm wrap around her waist.

Strong. Steady. Unmistakable.

Her feet left the ground.
She already knew who it was, she didn’t need to look. The cold, hard body behind her, the faint scent of dry wood and old blood. Paul.

His voice echoed, low and grave, in a language Irulan didn’t understand. The words were harsh, almost spat, and in his tone there was something she hadn’t heard before:
Annoyance.

The woman-child lowered her gaze at once. She froze, like a forgotten doll, just like the blond ones on the floor. Irulan felt a stab of pity, even through her fear.
She didn’t know what she had just witnessed. Didn’t know if it was real, a dream, or an ancient vision, but that girl, or woman, didn’t seem dangerous.

Paul gave her no time to think. He turned with her still in his arms, as if she weighed nothing, and shut the door with a sharp motion. He began walking back down the hallway, ignoring the trembling of Irulan’s body, ignoring her ragged breathing.

He was taking her back.

He would lock her in again.

Then he spoke, in that low, controlled voice, but filled with ice.

—I thought I told you to rest your ankle.

Irulan didn’t answer. Her heart still pounded in her chest, her mind spinning with impossible images. But inside her, something had begun to burn fiercely. Memory. Rage. Identity.

The walk back was torture. Not only because Paul carried her against her will, with that inhuman coldness that seemed to disregard her distress entirely—but because Irulan couldn’t take it anymore.

It wasn’t fear driving her now. It was fury.

—Put me down, —she snapped at first, getting no response— Paul, put me down. I’m not a child. I’m not a prisoner.

He kept walking.

—I have a life, you know? —she continued, raising her voice, as if it might shatter the stone-and-silence prison that was Paul— I had a career. A university. An apartment on Kaitain. Projects. A future. You can’t just decide I belong here because you believe it.

Nothing.
Paul said not a word. His expression was calm, empty, distant. As if he were carrying a precious object, not a woman screaming in his ear.

Irulan squirmed, even kicked a little, but her movements only made her ankle throb. She couldn’t fight like this. She gave in at least physically, but her mouth wouldn’t stay shut.

—I’m sick of this place! Of this room, your games, your silences! I’m not your wife, not your doll, not part of your damn collection! I’m a woman, Paul, not a memory!

Still, he didn’t flinch.

And by the time they reached the room, Irulan was on the verge of tears, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him that power. Paul set her gently on the bed, as if his hands weren’t the same ones that had just denied her entire existence.

Then he spoke.

—I haven’t eaten yet.

Irulan stared at him, stunned, her brow furrowed, one eyebrow raised in rage.
That was it? That was his response after everything she’d said?

—What? —she spat, incredulous— That’s all you’re going to say to me?

But Paul didn’t answer.
Instead, he leaned in toward her and in that instant, she understood.

She saw it in his face.
In the way his gaze darkened, in how his lips parted with that deliberate slowness, in how his fangs emerged—sharp, gleaming with an ancient hunger.

Irulan recoiled instantly, her body tensing.

—No, —she whispered, raising her hands in a futile attempt to stop him— Wait, Paul, please…

But it was too late.

His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling hard but not violently, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Irulan cried out, not from pain, but from helplessness, from contained terror. Her neck was exposed, defenseless, her skin trembling under the room’s icy air.

And then she felt it, the bite.
Cold at first, then burning.
The fangs tearing, piercing.

The pull of her blood deep, not just physical but spiritual, as if Paul were drinking more than her body, something she hadn’t even known she possessed.

The room spun. Her vision blurred. Her breathing turned erratic.

Paul didn’t stop. His fangs remained buried in Irulan’s neck, pulling with a slowness that bordered on cruelty while she let out soft, stifled sounds, moans from a place deep and fragile, where fear and desire blur together.

Her body trembled, caught between the instinct to flee and a strange dependence that the bite awakened in her.

With a barely noticeable motion, Paul laid her gently back onto the cold bed, never releasing her neck.

Now he was above her, covering her with his immortal presence, his weight firm and ominous, a tangible shadow that contained her and devoured her all at once.

His teeth continued to drain her, pulling out her essence, siphoning Irulan’s strength while his eyes, those red eyes burning with ancient fire, kept her prisoner without chains.

The air thickened, dense, almost tangible, as if the room itself breathed with them, a silent accomplice to that dark ritual.

When Paul finally pulled away from her neck, Irulan had no strength left.

Her body lay limp on the cold sheets, her pulse erratic, eyes half-closed, pupils wide as though the room were spinning endlessly. Her skin was pale, barely warm. Her breath came in short bursts, as if each exhale were borrowed.

She could feel her blood beating outside of her body—or so it seemed.
As though something essential had been taken from her.
As if Paul hadn’t just drunk her blood, but her will.

Paul, still above her, watched her with disturbing devotion. His lips stained red, his gaze fixed on her face as if he wanted to memorize every detail. He touched her with the tips of his fingers, trailing down her cheek to her chin with a gentleness perversely at odds with the brutality of his bite.

Irulan tried to move her hand, to push him away, to speak—anything.
But her body wouldn’t respond.
She was trapped in her own trembling, violated and exhausted.

Then Paul leaned down slowly.
His mouth, still wet with what he had taken, moved toward hers.

—So soft, —he whispered hoarsely, as if speaking to himself— So much like you used to be…

And he kissed her.

Gently at first, just a brush, just a memory…
But then deeper, as if sealing something, as if his kiss were a mark as eternal as his fangs.

Irulan couldn’t stop him.
Not physically.
Not mentally.

And what terrified her wasn’t the weakness…
It was that a part of her, small, lost, secret, didn’t reject him right away.

As if something deep within her recognized him.
As if that kiss had already happened before.

As if the monster above her wasn’t a stranger…
But someone her soul had known before she was born.

---

When Irulan woke, the first thing she felt was the soft creak of old leather beneath her body.
The second, the weight of strong hands wrapped around her waist.
And the third, the heartbeat of someone else—cold, unchanging, behind her.

She opened her eyes slowly, her mind still foggy, as if the dream refused to fully release her. But when the darkness lifted, she realized she was no longer in her room.

The room was different.
Darker, more enclosed.
The walls were carved black stone, lined with ancient books on shelves that rose like barricades up to the vaulted ceiling. The fire in the hearth didn’t illuminate—it cast grotesque shadows across every surface. In the air lingered the scent of old paper, melted wax, and something more metallic... dried blood, perhaps.

It was an office.
A study or a hall of governance.
And she was sitting on Paul’s lap.

Again.

Irulan swallowed hard.
She still felt a faint sting on her neck, and the moment she moved, the memory struck her like a blow: the bite, the weakness… the kiss.
That damn kiss that made her blush against her will.

She hated herself for it.
She felt weak because of it.
And before she could look away, she heard his voice—that deep voice, wrapped in smoke and centuries:

—If you keep blushing like that, —Paul murmured, very close to her ear, with that lazy smile that seemed to savor every one of her reactions— I’ll have no choice but to bite your cheeks.

Irulan clenched her teeth.

—It’s not funny, —she muttered, looking away, unable to hide the flush still burning on her face.

—Oh, I’m not joking, —he said with poisoned sweetness, trailing a finger along her cheek as if truly considering it— After all, this little face belongs to me, doesn’t it?

She tensed her jaw.

—I’m not yours, Paul.

He didn’t answer immediately.
He simply leaned toward her neck, barely brushing it with his nose, breathing in deeply like someone recognizing a familiar perfume.

—You still don’t remember enough… but you will, —he whispered, sliding a slow caress along her waist— And when you do… you’ll see you were always mine.

Irulan closed her eyes, hating the shiver that ran down her spine. She didn’t know if it was fear, rage, or something more dangerous: a buried spark in her soul that recognized those words.

Irulan couldn’t bear the silence any longer.
Nor his constant nearness, nor the chill of his hands on her waist, nor the way the room seemed to close in around them, whispering secrets with every groan of the ancient wood.

But most of all, she couldn’t stand not knowing.

Not knowing why she was here.
Not knowing why everything felt like déjà vu.
And above all, not knowing who that girl… that woman… Ghanima, was.

—Paul, —she said suddenly, breaking the silence in a low but firm voice.

He didn’t answer, but one of his hands froze mid-motion across her back, as if that single word had triggered an alert in him.

—Who exactly is Ghanima?

Paul went still.
Too still.
The fireplace crackled behind them, casting a flickering red light over the books. Irulan glanced sideways at him. He didn’t look back. He kept staring at some dead point ahead, like he could pretend he hadn’t heard.

—I saw what she did, —Irulan pressed— She changed in front of me. From a child to a woman. That wasn’t a hallucination.

Paul closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to contain something inside himself. Then he spoke again, voice measured, controlled, too controlled.

—I told you… she’s my daughter. With Chani.

—That’s not all, —Irulan replied, shifting slightly on his lap, though her ankle protested— There’s something strange about her. Is she cursed too, like you?

—She carries her own curse, —Paul answered, curt.

—What kind?

—That’s not your concern.

Irulan frowned, confused.

—Why not? Why can’t I know? What are you hiding from me?

Paul finally looked at her.
His red eyes glowed, but not with tenderness. Nor with anger. There was something else… a shadow, a fracture. As if the name Ghanima opened a wound that hadn’t healed.

—Because I don’t want you to focus on her, —he said quietly, each word slow, heavy with strange intent— Not now. Not when you’ve just come back to me.

Irulan squinted at him.

—What do you mean “don’t focus on her”? —she asked, her voice like a dagger wrapped in velvet— Are you afraid I’ll get close to her?

Paul held her gaze a moment longer.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t deny it.
He just tightened his arm around her waist slightly. A subtle gesture. But possessive.

Irulan blinked.

And then she felt it, it wasn’t just protection. It was jealousy.
Not that of a partner, or a lover…
Something more primitive. More twisted.
As if he didn’t want Irulan to look at anyone else.
As if no one could touch her, influence her, or pull her out of the bubble he so carefully built.

—God… you’re jealous, —Irulan murmured, horrified— Of your own daughter.

Paul looked away, but his jaw clenched.

—You and Ghanima must not be near each other, —was all he said, and his tone wasn’t commanding. It was final. Like an order sealed in blood.

Irulan stared at him, her skin prickling—not from the cold, but from something deeper.

And she thought that maybe she wasn’t the only prisoner in this place. That perhaps Ghanima also needed to be saved.

---

It was night again.
The moon, filtered through the tall, narrow, sealed windows of the tower, barely illuminated the gothic outline of the bedroom. The room seemed to breathe with its own life, as if every shadow stretched with purpose, and every creak of the palace responded to the pulse of what was happening inside.

Paul sat at the edge of the bed like an unmoving sentinel, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes, those old, red eyes, never left Irulan’s face.

Asleep. Finally.

Getting her to sleep that day had been harder. Much harder. Irulan clung to wakefulness like a shield, as if resisting sleep meant resisting him. That stubbornness of hers… it had always been there. In every life. In every death. Even before remembering, Irulan had always been stubborn, defiant, radiant.

“I’m not going to sleep while you’re watching me like some creepy damn stalker.”
That’s what she had told him. With those green eyes burning with fury and defiance.

And yet, sleep had won.
As it always did.
Because the body betrays even the most combative soul.

Now she lay beside him, wrapped in the palace’s cold sheets, breathing irregularly, her brow still slightly furrowed… as if even in sleep, she was still resisting him.
Paul watched her in silence, every eyelash, every curve of her face, memorizing the little details that hadn’t changed.

He didn’t need to sleep.
He hadn’t for centuries.
But watching her sleep, that was a ritual.

In another life, Irulan used to fall asleep while he brushed her hair, just like now. In another life, she woke up smiling. In another, she would hide in his arms when nightmares came.
In all of them, she ended up dying.
And he, cursed by time and hunger, had to wait.
Count the years.
Let the world spin a thousand times more, until she returned.

Now she was here.
And even if she didn’t remember yet, her soul did.

He could feel it in those moments when she looked at him and her fury trembled, or when her body reacted to his with a strange mix of confusion and familiarity.
The bond couldn’t be broken.
Not entirely.

Paul leaned in a little.
His fingers brushed aside her golden hair with a tenderness that clashed with the darkness that surrounded him.

—You always fight, —he whispered softly, to her or to himself—But you always get tired… and come back to me.

His eyes narrowed.
The hunger was no longer physical.
It was a void that only she could fill.
And this time, he swore he wouldn’t lose her again.

No matter how much she resisted.
No matter who he had to destroy.
Irulan was his.

As she had always been.

---

Irulan didn’t know if she was sleeping or floating.
The room vanished, the air thickened, filled with sand and fire.

And then she saw it.

The desert. Vast. Endless.
The sands of Arrakis burned beneath her bare feet. The sky was red like freshly spilled blood. The roar of crowds filled the horizon, a tide of voices shouting words she didn’t fully understand: Lisan al Gaib… Mahdi… Muad’Dib…

And he was there.
In front of her.

Paul.

Younger. Still covered in the dust of battle, his eyes brighter than ever, completely blue, without a trace of red.
He radiated more than power, he was destiny incarnate.
Dried blood on his clothes, hair tousled by the storm wind that loomed. His lips moved, pronouncing a sentence.
Irulan couldn’t quite hear it.
Everything was distorted by the echo of voices.

And then, in front of him, another man.
Pale, eyes burning with fury, voice cracked with humiliation.
Shaddam Corrino. Her father. Her father?

Irulan felt him as such. In this dream, in this memory twisted by the curse, that man was her father, a shadow.
And Paul… she looked at him with strange familiarity.

Paul defeated him without raising a hand.
With words.
With vision.
With certainty.
There was death in his eyes, but also redemption.

“The life debt is paid. Spare my father, and I will marry you willingly. The throne will be yours.”
A voice cried it out.
She didn’t know if it was hers or the woman’s behind Shaddam.

Irulan stepped back.
It was her.
That woman was a faded copy of herself.
The wind howled, and everything spun, everything fused into a single scream.

Paul looked at her for the first time.
There, in the middle of the chaos.
His gaze locked with hers.

And it was as if something exploded in her chest.

Pain. Familiarity.
A visceral shudder ran down her spine like a bolt of lightning.

“I will take your daughter’s hand. She will be safe, and we will rule the empire together,” said Paul, his voice deep, powerful, indelible, pointing at her as if marking her fate.

Irulan didn’t know whether to scream or run.
Her mind said no, but her soul bent, defeated.

And then the sand turned to blood.
The sky collapsed.
And Paul’s blue eyes turned red.

The same eyes that now looked at her, in the tower.

Irulan jolted upright, gasping, trembling, her heart about to burst from her chest.

Was it a dream?
A memory?
A vision?

Or perhaps… all three.

And Paul…
Paul was already there.
Standing beside the bed, watching her in silence, as if he knew exactly what she had dreamed.

As if he had remembered it with her.

—You’ve started to remember, —he said with dark softness, almost proud—The first time you saw me. The day everything changed.

Irulan curled into herself, hugging her knees, her neck still sensitive, her mind full of confusion.

Because the worst part wasn’t the memory.
Nor the feeling of having once belonged to him.

The worst part…
Was that a part of her recognized him as hers.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the red velvet room was thick as clotted blood, saturated with incense, silence, and things that should no longer exist. The very walls seemed to exhale the past, pulsing with the embalmed memories of the palace. Candles blackened by time flickered in rusted candelabras, casting dancing shadows that slid across the central display case.

Inside it, suspended like an eternal offering, lay Chani.
Her perfect body, preserved by means no Fremen rite would have ever approved of, floated in supernatural stillness.
Death had touched her, yes, but Paul had never allowed it to fully take her.

At her feet, upon a circle of silver sand brought from the last desert of Arrakis, Ghanima knelt.
Her dark blue tunic spilled around her like a pool of night, and in her arms she held a small sandworm, twisting slowly, emitting a deep, guttural sound that resembled a living prayer.

Leto, her son.
Ghanima's twin.
Flesh and prophecy made creature.
And still, only a child.

Paul watched them from the far end of the room, seated on a high-backed chair, hands clasped, gaze alight. Silence caressed him. It was a night without screams, without pleas, without resistance.
Only Ghanima, Chani, Leto… and him.

A broken family, gathered in his private temple of madness.

Irulan was not with them. She had awoken agitated, screaming, accusing him of drugging her, of manipulating her, of stealing her mind. Paul had not responded. He didn’t need to.
Each dream was another crack in the shell of her denial.

Irulan’s screams were echoes of the Irulan that once was.
And that intoxicated him with brutal nostalgia.

He loved her so much.
And had lost her so many times.

Ghanima did not look at him. She had spent three whole nights without speaking a word, only singing prayers in an ancient Fremen dialect even the elders of Sietch Tabr had forgotten.
Paul did not demand answers either.

The girl-woman had her own weights.
And her own curse.

—She’s almost back, —Paul said at last, voice low and raspy, as if his words were desert dust— Three more nights, maybe five. She will no longer fight. She will no longer fear, little one. She will no longer hate me.

Ghanima did not flinch.

—And what if this time she does? —she whispered without looking at him— What if she never loves you again?

Paul closed his eyes. The silence between father and daughter turned dense. A dark pulse ran through the place like an otherworldly vibration.

—She will hate me, —he replied with a slight, cold smile— But she will remember me.

The small worm in Ghanima’s arms stirred more strongly, as if it understood the weight of the words.
She held it tighter, murmuring something softly.

Paul rose, his long black coat sliding across the floor, approaching the display case.
His fingers touched the glass, right in front of Chani’s motionless face.

—She will not be like you, —he murmured with sickly tenderness— She will stay.

Ghanima turned her gaze away. Her lips trembled slightly.

And the worm in her arms opened its mouth.

---

Irulan hugged herself, trembling, sitting in a corner of a room she could no longer tell was hers or belonged to another woman who had lived centuries before.
How many days had passed?
How many nights with candles that never melted completely?
How many times had she screamed in dreams, only to wake up gasping with the sensation of the desert in her mouth and the taste of metal on her tongue?

She didn’t know, she knew nothing. Only that she was losing herself.

Her reflection in the mirror no longer seemed her own.
She looked and saw… someone else.
That woman from the dreams—the princess, the empress, the shadow that pursued her with eyes full of duty, of sacrifice, of choices made by others. That woman was also called Irulan, also had golden hair, had also breathed… or had she?

The tears slid silently down her cheeks, hot and salty, as if trying to cleanse the invisible weight pressing on her chest.
Her breathing was uneven.
Each inhale a stab.
Her mind… no longer fully hers, nor her body.

—I’m not her, —she whispered with a broken voice, throat dry from speaking to no one but him— I’m not her…

And yet… she was.

The visions were growing more vivid.
She remembered the war, the day she saw him for the first time, how his soldiers knelt before him.
How her father… no, the other Irulan’s father, had been stripped of the throne, how she, young and proud, had been offered as wife to a man who did not want her, who never loved her…

But in the dreams, he did look at her—rarely, but he looked.
Not like now, with that sick devotion, but with a shadow of respect, of something that might have been affection.
Or could have been, were it not for Chani.

Chani.

That perfect, untouchable, dead woman.

Irulan sobbed harder, in silence.
Was this what Paul wanted?
To break her?
To mold her in the image of that other life?
To force her into a destiny written in blood and madness?

She stood up unsteadily, wandered the room as if searching for an exit she had already checked a hundred times.
The windows remained sealed.
The doors, locked with invisible bolts that yielded neither to screams nor pleas.

Irulan pressed her forehead against the cold glass, feeling her pulse in her temples, her tears staining the wooden frame.

—I don’t understand anything… —she said, and her voice trembled as if she were speaking to a god who would not hear her— I don’t know who I am.

And for the first time…
she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Because each night, when she slept, she faded a little more. And that other Irulan—the broken empress, the monster’s wife—settled into her place. More comfortably. More confidently.

As if she had never left.

---

Irulan was sitting on Paul’s lap, as she had so many times before, her body wrapped in a light robe the color of twilight, barefoot, the tips of her toes barely brushing the red carpet that covered the floor. Paul, holding an antique porcelain bowl carved with Fremen motifs, gently brought a spoonful of food to her lips.

She ate without saying a word, without resisting, without even looking at him.

She didn’t know when she had stopped fighting.
She didn’t know exactly when she had surrendered.

But she had.

And not from physical exhaustion. Not because of the confinement. Not even from the nights where the palace seemed to breathe with her.
She had done it because her mind no longer belonged to her. Because now she remembered, because in her dreams she saw more than the daylight revealed to her, because what had once been only terror and denial… now felt like recognition.

—Good, very good, princess, —Paul murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate, as he wiped the corners of her mouth with a cloth, like an intimate ritual— You were always so obedient in the end. Even when your tongue was sharp as a blade.

Irulan said nothing.
She had no strength left to protest, not even to fake revulsion.
She didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or because she was beginning to accept that all of this—this enveloping madness—was hers.
Part of her.
Part of always.

Paul held her at the waist with one hand, as if she were a fragile thing that might break at the sound of a sigh. With the other, he caressed her back, as if soothing an invisible beast, as if weaving the threads of fate tighter.

Irulan swallowed with difficulty and turned her gaze toward the fire crackling in the hearth. The flames danced like in the dreams. Like on Arrakis. Like when the sky burned above the sands and she looked at Paul on his golden throne, blood on his hands, shadows behind his crown.

"My husband," thought the Irulan of her dreams.
"My captor," thought the Irulan of now.

And still…
they were the same.

—Do you want more? —he asked, and she shook her head, saying nothing.

Paul didn’t insist. He only held her a little tighter, as if he knew she was on the edge of breaking.
As if he couldn’t afford to let her shatter just yet.

—More memories will come tonight, —he whispered into her ear— I know which one. And I know it will hurt.

Irulan shut her eyes tightly.

She didn’t want to sleep anymore.
But she didn’t want to be awake either, and there was no escape.

---

That night, Paul lay beside her.
That was what brought her back to reality.

Who did this madman think he was, lying next to her?
It was already unbearable to know he watched her while she slept from the corner of the bed… but to lie beside her?

—Get away from me, Paul, —she said, looking him straight in the eyes, though Irulan couldn’t hold his red gaze for long.

—Not tonight, sweetheart, —he replied with a lazy smile. He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist.

—You’re insane, le— she didn’t finish the sentence. A cry of pain escaped her as she felt his teeth sink into her skin.
—Paul…

Paul didn’t answer. Not with words.

His fangs were already embedded in her neck, with surgical precision and restrained hunger. The air left Irulan’s lungs in a single gasp as her body tensed against his, defenseless, trapped. Paul’s hands held her with a sick kind of tenderness, as if cradling her while draining her was an act of love… and not of dominance.

The room grew even darker, if that was possible. The candles flickered—some extinguished for no apparent reason, as if the palace itself knew it should fall silent, look the other way.

—No… —Irulan whispered, her voice broken, weakened by the dizziness quickly flooding her thoughts. She wanted to push him away, wanted to scream, to escape those arms that each day felt more familiar, more inevitable. But her body didn’t respond. It only trembled.

Paul licked gently at the drops left on her skin, sealing the bite with a soft kiss that chilled her even more.

—I’m sorry, princess, —he murmured, his voice always wrapped in mourning— But tonight I needed to feel you… real.

Irulan could barely think. Her head was spinning, her body weighed a ton, and her blood felt like smoke. But she looked at him. She looked again with what little strength she had left—and truly saw him for the first time.

A monster trapped in his own love, a shadow of the past that couldn’t let her go.

—Why won’t you let me go…? —she whispered, no tears left, only the echo of what once was will.

Paul didn’t answer right away. He simply held her tighter, his breath slow, almost content. His forehead pressed against her wounded neck.

—Because when you left the first time… —he finally said— I died too. Only they didn’t let me stay dead.

Silence.

And then Irulan felt something warm fall on her collarbone. One drop. Then another.

Paul was crying—silently. As if time had finally managed to catch up with him.

She closed her eyes, wishing it were all a nightmare.

But what tore her apart even more was what came next: it wasn’t a nightmare, and even if she didn’t accept it yet… it wasn’t entirely a lie either.

Irulan slept, but inside her mind there was no rest. Only a cruel, silent parade of memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember.

She saw herself again in the great imperial room, dressed in her finest, shoulders bare, her hair braided with gemstones, every detail prepared to please Paul. She sat on the marriage bed, candles lit, the air perfumed with exotic essences she’d chosen herself. She waited.

And then he arrived. Cold. Imposing. Distant.

—Not tonight, Irulan, —he said with that voice of his that could shatter cities— Nor any other night.

And he left. Again. Once more.

The dream shifted, and another scene emerged: her standing before a mirror, removing her crown with trembling fingers, biting her lip to keep from screaming. Silent, dignified tears. The tears of a woman who no longer knew who she was. Not a wife. Not a mother. Just a name.

The palace had become a prison. Every gesture Paul made toward Chani was a dagger. Every caress, every laugh, every glance… Irulan absorbed them like poison.

Then she saw herself in that hidden chamber, where black-robed women—Bene Gesserit—surrounded her like shadows with eyes. They spoke of heritage, of bloodlines, of control. Their voices were serpents.

—If we cannot force the Lion to sow the land… then we must wither the other flowers that distract him, —an old one said with a dry voice.

And it was Irulan who nodded. She who prepared the fine, nearly invisible powder meant to slip into Chani’s food. She who did it, day after day.

The next image was the most unbearable.

Chani—thin, pale, coughing blood. Paul holding her in his arms, his eyes broken.

The guilt detonated inside Irulan like a wave of acid. In the dream and in her real body.

She saw herself scream, vomit her own remorse.

“It wasn’t for love!” she wanted to say.
“It was for duty, for destiny, for survival!”

But deep down, she knew. It was also for hatred. For loneliness. For having been invisible for too long.

The dream ended with a whisper.

A voice—her own—repeating over and over:
—I killed her. I killed her. I killed her.

And she woke up, drenched in sweat, trembling. Tears still falling, fists clenched against the sheets as if trying to tear them apart.

Paul wasn’t in the room.

And that scared her even more. Because now she didn’t know if she wanted to hate him… or ask for forgiveness.

---

This time, Irulan wore a white dress. She walked through the corridors in complete silence, her bare footsteps barely audible on the cold marble, the fabric floating behind her like a shroud. Her mind still trapped in the recent dream, in the image of Chani—nearly lifeless—in Paul’s arms.

Without knowing how, she found herself in front of that cursed room.
The chamber where Chani lay, suspended, trapped in a display case like a sacred relic or a sick offering. There she was—mummified, eternal, dead.
Or something worse?

The tears began to slip down Irulan’s face before she even noticed. Was it her? Had it been her poison that weakened her? Had she unknowingly destroyed the only true love Paul had ever had?
Had she left Ghanima without a mother? Paul… hollow?

She felt like a monster.
No.
She was a monster.

The sobs tore through her from the inside, devastating, until she felt arms wrap around her from behind. A firm, cold body. A whisper by her ear.

—It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself, darling, —Paul said, with a calmness that only deepened her anguish.

—But I poisoned her… —Irulan stammered through tears— I made her weak. I killed her.

—You didn’t kill her, —Paul replied, his voice low, emotionless— It was the twins. They did it.

Irulan froze.

—What are you saying…?

—I knew too, —Paul continued, stroking her hair— I knew what you were doing. I allowed it. I never stopped you. If you’re going to blame someone… blame me.

Irulan looked at him, her eyes burning from the tears and from the confusion.
Everything was a swamp, a tangle of memories, of half-truths.

—I don’t understand, —she whispered.

Paul turned his gaze to the display case, to the corpse-that-wasn’t-a-corpse.

—She’s not dead, —he said— Chani… is in an endless coma.

Irulan was speechless. Chani’s face looked the same: pale, still, her eyes closed as if sealed by death itself.

—How…? —she asked, barely audible.

Paul looked at her with a strangely gentle smile.

—She can only wake with a kiss of true love.

Irulan turned her head sharply, her eyes furious, disbelieving.

—Are you kidding me? Are you seriously saying that now? What’s next, Paul? A fairy godmother? A spindle curse? We’re not in some damn fairytale!

Paul laughed under his breath. A dry laugh. Dark.

—I know what you’re thinking. But I’m serious, princess, —he replied— Look at me: I’m a blood-drinking monster. My daughter is a creature who decides when to be a child or a woman at will. Do you really think Chani couldn’t be cursed too?

Irulan fell silent.
Frightened, not by Paul—but by the possibility he might be right.

—If that’s true, —she said at last, locking eyes with his— Why haven’t you awakened her? Why haven’t you tried?

Paul didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, long, intense. And then, he smiled. But it wasn’t mockery—it was surrender.

—I did try, Irulan, —he whispered, tightening his hold on her waist— I did the day of the birth. The day everything changed. The day I lost her.

Irulan swallowed hard, feeling something invisible crushing her.

—And why didn’t it work…?

Paul leaned in close. His lips barely a breath away. The chill of his skin clashing with the warmth of hers.

—Because in that moment, my heart… had already begun to love you.

And then he kissed her.

Paul held his lips firmly against Irulan’s, the kiss dark, deep, a silent storm that seemed to devour the air between them. At first, Irulan resisted, her mind fighting against the dizziness rising through her body, but little by little she gave in, surrendering to the intensity of that forbidden, brutal moment. Her hands trembled, brushing against Paul’s icy skin as her breath quickened.

Without breaking the kiss, Paul took her gently—but with unyielding strength—and laid her down on the thick, heavy carpet that covered the floor of the room. Their bodies merged in an embrace that seemed to erase time, without haste, without mercy.

The scent of old wood, the faint fragrance of burned incense, the heavy silence of the place mingled with the heat of their skin.

But in the midst of that whirlwind of desire and confusion, Irulan’s gaze drifted toward a dark corner. There, in the display case, Chani’s mummified figure rested—cold, unmoving—with that spectral beauty that seemed to watch them without judgment, only with eternity as witness.

A chill ran through her body.
The guilt, the fear, the betrayal—everything struck her chest with unbearable force.

How could she be there, kissing Paul, while Chani’s shadow watched their every move? How could she let desire consume her when silent death hovered over them?

But there was no room for doubt—not in that moment.

Paul held her closer, his lips not leaving a single inch unexplored, and in that instant, Irulan knew she was trapped—beyond love, beyond time.

She was a prisoner of a dark fate.
And perhaps… of a curse without end.

Paul lowered his head slowly, his sharp fangs grazing the delicate skin of Irulan’s neck. The bite was precise—cold and burning at once—piercing without mercy and drawing from her a warm, living thread of blood that stained his lips with a deep crimson shine.

He left dark, wet kisses on her skin, as if marking her more as territory than as lover. Irulan shuddered, a mix of pleasure and terror surging through her spine.

—Don’t look at her, —Paul whispered, his voice low and firm, his red eyes locked onto hers— Don’t look at Chani.

Irulan turned away, forcing herself to ignore the silent, mummified figure that seemed to absorb all the light in the room—a dark, eternal reminder of what had been lost and what she herself had destroyed.

Her eyes returned to Paul, to that crimson fire devouring her without mercy. His lips pressed once again to hers.

Irulan had no strength left to resist. She only let out muffled gasps, soft sighs lost in the storm of sensations consuming her completely. Every kiss, every touch was another heartbeat in that macabre dance of desire and power that bound them.

They were trapped in a dark cycle, where passion and damnation blurred until they were indistinguishable.

Paul deepened the kiss, his hunger not only physical—it was ancient, deep, a need that transcended centuries. His hands gripped Irulan’s waist tighter, as if trying to merge her with himself, to possess every fiber of her being.

Irulan surrendered completely, her body trembling beneath him, mixing fear and desire in a storm that left her breathless. Her breathing became erratic, her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and unable to help it, her fingers tangled in Paul’s dark, disheveled hair, clinging to him like an anchor in the darkness.

The room seemed to close in, shadows dancing on the walls as the outside world vanished—leaving only the fevered touch of their skin, the taste of blood, and the echo of their moans. Paul slowly descended along Irulan’s neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses and crimson marks that seemed to burn into her skin from within.

—You’re mine, —he murmured with a hoarse, broken voice, his warm breath mingling with the cold radiating from his immortal body— You always were, and always will be.

Irulan felt a sweet, dangerous vertigo at those words, knowing that giving in meant losing herself—but unable to pull away.
Paul’s intensity consumed her—he was fire and ice, a monster who devoured her with both tenderness and violence.

Irulan didn’t register the passage of time. Everything became blurry: the kisses, the bites, the heat on her skin mixed with Paul’s frozen eternity, the carpet stained with crimson and desire, the closeness of death… and of something worse: the love of a monster.

At some point, without strength or will left, Irulan felt her body being lifted with care. Paul held her as if she were a sacred object—or an offering—his arms as firm as the marble that decorated that cursed palace. They moved through the hallways, dark, endless, filled with echoes and memories Irulan couldn’t tell were hers or from another life.

—You did very well today, darling, —Paul murmured as they reached her room, that cell disguised in luxury where the walls seemed to breathe.

He laid her on the bed, tucked her in with oddly gentle hands, and placed a cold kiss on her forehead.

—Now sleep… remember more, wife.

And as if those words were an ancient spell, one spoken in many lives before this one, Irulan’s eyes closed instantly. She fell into a deep sleep, without protest, without defense.

A dream where reality dissolved, and the memories—more hers each time, heavier, darker—dragged her down without mercy.

Because that was the curse: to live, to die, to be reborn… and to remember.
Always remember.

---

While Irulan slept deeply, trapped in the enchantment of her own fragmented memories, Paul stood at the foot of the bed, watching her. His red eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, like embers fed by satisfaction.

For centuries he had dreamed of this moment. The image of Irulan, asleep, wrapped in black silk sheets, her lips still flushed from his kisses, her throat marked by his fangs. It was an echo from the past, a perfect repetition of a scene that neither death nor time had been able to erase.

Paul approached slowly, almost reverently, as if not wanting to disturb the delicate balance that now held his world together. He knelt beside her and let his hand slide through her golden hair, pausing for a moment to inhale her scent: the same essence he remembered from a thousand years ago—a mix of jasmine, blood, and fear.

He smiled.

A calm smile… but hungry. Satisfied, but not sated.

—Soon, Irulan… very soon, —he whispered— You’ll stop fighting what you are. What we were. What we are.

He watched her for a long time, as if trying to carve every detail of her sleeping face into his memory: the curve of her lips, the way her breathing gently lifted her chest, the way her body seemed to finally surrender—not just to sleep… but to him.

Paul rose with the slow grace of a sated predator and walked out of the room, silent. He crossed the black marble hallways of the palace, descending step by step toward the heart of Arrakeen.

There, the portraits of past lives awaited him, the frozen memories of a dead empire, the altar where Chani slept.

Paul placed his palm against the sealed case where Chani remained in her cursed sleep. Her expression was not one of pain… but of a soul emptied.

—I promised, my love, —he whispered, looking at his former companion— I would have her again. Even if I had to destroy the universe a thousand times… even if I have to leave you in death forever.

Then, without looking back, he walked away from the velvet-lined chamber, leaving behind Chani, the memories, and the ghosts.
Because now, Irulan was in his bed. Irulan had kissed him. Irulan had let him bite her. Irulan was already returning to him…
And soon, very soon, she would be entirely his.

The night was still young.
And eternity, patient.

---

Irulan did not startle upon finding herself, once again, trapped in a dream that smelled of the past. Her body floated in that blurred space between the present and what once was, and she no longer knew if she was dreaming or living another life through her own.
She simply accepted it.

But this time, something was different.

The scene before her was intimate, warm… and devastating.

Two babies slept in a hand-carved wooden cradle, so perfect it looked like a sacred reliquary. The little ones were wrapped in linen blankets, their tiny breaths in sync. One had clenched fists and a slightly furrowed brow, as if already dreaming of storms. The other, the girl, slept with a hand stretched toward her brother, as if offering to protect him from the cradle itself. They looked so much like… Paul. Like Chani.

Irulan felt trapped in a vortex of guilt and tenderness. Her eyes clouded with tears she didn’t know if they were hers.

Ghanima. Leto.

Their names crossed her mind without her thinking them. She didn’t know how she knew them, but she did. Just as she knew they weren’t hers. And yet, the sharp pain in her chest told her they were. Somehow… they were.

—They were always your weakness.

The voice that rose behind her was clear, feminine, laced with a serene irony that raised goosebumps.

Irulan turned around immediately.
And then she saw her.

A woman with dark hair, intense gaze, and a fierce beauty that made her resemble Paul too much. The same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing, cruel eyes. But in her, there was something more… as if her soul were made of cracks and fire.

Alia.

The name slipped from Irulan’s lips like a memory torn from deep within her.

The woman smiled.

—Hello again, dear princess, —Alia said, her voice a whisper that felt like the dream’s walls bent around them— Always so proper, so ornamental… so miserable.

Irulan stepped back, unsure. Alia walked toward the cradle and gently stroked Ghanima’s sleeping face. For a moment, her expression softened.

—These two… are the tragedy of all of us. Their birth was the blessing that finally cursed us.

—Why am I seeing this? —Irulan asked, her voice cracking.

—Because you’re waking up, —Alia replied, not looking at her— Because he wants you back—whole. But to be whole… you have to remember even what you hate.

Alia looked at her then, straight into her eyes.

—Are you ready to see who you were, Irulan Corrino? To admit what you did out of envy? To see who you were… and what you still might become?

The room began to tremble, as if the cradle were the epicenter of a contained earthquake. The dream’s walls cracked, and Alia’s voice echoed into the void.

—Remember. Or you’ll be the monster’s doll for all eternity.

And with a final blink… everything went dark.

Chapter Text

The vision did not fade. On the contrary, it became sharper, painfully precise.

Irulan opened her eyes again, already knowing, with that resignation that only comes from the weight of habit, that she was still trapped in the memories. She didn’t know if they were her own or imposed upon her, but she did know that what she was about to see would tear her apart once more.

She was in a room adorned with tapestries of red and black thread, half-burned candles, and the unmistakable scent of burned spice lingering in the air. The floor was polished black stone, reflecting two figures tense before a display case: the same, immutable one where Chani’s suspended body hung like an echo frozen in time.

Paul stood in front of the display case. Motionless. As if the gravity of the past chained him there. In front of him, his mother, Jessica Atreides, spoke with a mixture of firmness and desperation. Her face, though marked by age and wisdom, still held the hardness of a woman shaped by duty.

—I have Ghanima and Leto. Why does the Empire need another child of mine? —Paul asked with a hollow voice, dead of emotion. His eyes were on Chani, on that sleeping, absent, perfect face.

Jessica closed her eyes for just a second. When she opened them, she forced herself not to look at the display case.

—Ghanima and Leto are perfect, Paul. You love them. I love them. Even Alia… —she paused, swallowing the name as if it tasted like ash— But you know the Empire doesn’t love them.

Paul turned his face toward her, slowly.

—Lie.

—I’m telling the truth. The Empire will never accept an heir born of a Fremen, much less of a concubine. Not now, not yet. —Jessica took a step forward, her voice hardening— And you know it. The stability of your reign still hangs by a thread, and the Empire’s threads are old, twisted. They need an heir born of the Corrino princess. Of your legal wife.

Paul didn’t respond. His jaw tightened.

Jessica took another step.

—You have Irulan. She’s there, day after day. She is no threat. She’s no longer a spy. She has resigned herself, she’s adapted… and you desire her.

Paul blinked.

—I will not lie with Irulan, he said in a low but icy voice.

Jessica clenched her fists. Her patience was wearing thin.

—Stop being stubborn, Paul! —she suddenly shouted, her voice cracking the air like a whip— You desire her. You’re not blind. Your heart wants Irulan. If it weren’t so… if it weren’t so, Chani would be awake!

Silence became a tomb.

The words hung in the air like a verdict no one dared to challenge.

From the distance of her dream, Irulan felt something crumble inside her. She remembered, with a cold clarity, Paul telling her that Chani could only awaken with a kiss of true love. One he had already tried… and failed.

Because he accepted he didn’t love her as before.
Because his heart, broken, divided, and full of centuries of guilt… was no longer only Chani’s.

But here, in this scene buried by time, the Paul of her memories still fought against that truth. He still clung to the illusion of fidelity, to the myth of unbreakable love. To the idea that Irulan was nothing more than a contract, a title, a shadow.

And yet… Jessica was right.

Irulan felt a lump in her throat. Tears burned her eyes. How many times had she wanted to hear that? How many times had she wished not to be invisible to him?

And now that she knew… now that it all returned to her, remembered, relived… she didn’t know whether to feel relief or disgust. Because maybe, after all, she had won. But she had done so over a corpse.

Alia’s voice drifted in like an ancient breeze behind her, interrupting Irulan’s thoughts with a mix of sweetness and certainty.

—Don’t cry—she said.—My brother was always so bad at accepting his feelings. Even when Chani was alive… he had already started looking at you.

Irulan turned, startled. Alia was at her side again, as real as the figures in the memory. She wore a dark, fitted dress, and her chestnut hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding in front of them, where Paul and Jessica stood in tense silence.

—So the one who won from the very start… was you, princess— Alia said with a sideways smile, almost mocking.

Irulan shivered. Not from fear, but from the raw truth in those words. Won. Was that what she had done? And at what cost?

—Why? —she whispered— How can you see me? How can you talk to me...? You’re not here. You shouldn’t be here.

Alia turned her gaze to her. A dangerous calm settled over her face.

—Come now, princess— she said, taking a step closer— I thought you’d remember just how wonderful and magical I can be.

And then she smiled. A mischievous smile, charming and tinged with a bit of arrogance, so characteristic that Irulan let out a trembling, low laugh through her tears. It wasn’t a happy laugh, but the weary laugh of someone who finds a spark of warmth in a chasm of darkness.

For an instant, Irulan remembered her: the fierce woman who feared no one, the younger sister who defied emperors, the young witch born with the soul of a thousand voices inside her.

—You always knew how to make me smile, even when I didn’t want to— Irulan admitted, lowering her gaze for a moment.

—And you were always stronger than you looked.— Alia replied, softer now. Her tone was no longer mocking, but sincere.

Irulan swallowed hard. She turned back to the scene: Paul with his tense back; Jessica with anger still etched on her face. And between them, like a pendulum of tragedy, Chani’s suspended body.

—I don’t feel strong. I feel… —she closed her eyes— like everything I am was built from the ruins of another woman.

—And isn’t that how true queens are born? —Alia whispered— From ruins, from fire, from the blood of others. It’s not fair, Irulan… but it’s real.

There was silence between them.

—Am I becoming like you? —Irulan asked with a trembling voice— Full of voices? Of memories? Of ghosts?

Alia didn’t answer immediately. She walked a few steps closer to the Paul in the vision, looked at him with melancholy tenderness, and then fixed her eyes back on Irulan.

—Maybe—she said at last.— But if you are, you’re not alone. I too had to learn to carry centuries that weren’t mine. But you have an advantage I never had.

—What is it?

—You have his love. The real thing. And that… that can be a blessing. Or the worst of curses.

The image began to fade.

---

—Stop interfering.—Paul’s voice cut through the gloom, sharp, cold, laced with restrained anger.

A full day had already passed since Irulan had fallen asleep, trapped once more in her memories. At first, Paul thought she would wake as always, trembling, confused… but time passed, the hours stretched, and she did not wake. That’s when he understood. His sister was there.

Alia floated a few inches above the ground, sitting cross-legged in the air, suspended like a specter that no longer belonged to the world of the living or the dead. Her skin was translucent, white like a veil of ash. Her hair fell in soft waves, and her serene blue eyes were fixed on Irulan, who lay asleep, motionless, unaware of the conversation.

That was her curse. To be a spirit trapped within the castle walls, condemned to wander for eternity. She only emerged from hiding to play with her nephews… or for this. To cling to the living through memories.

—I’m only helping speed things up, brother— Alia replied in her melodious voice, a voice so sweetly cruel it seemed to sing even when it threatened.

—Irulan is human. She needs to wake. She needs to eat—Paul shot back, his jaw tight, his eyes never leaving the sleeping figure on the bed.

—What she needs is to remember—Alia’s voice turned colder, firmer— Time is running out, Paul. If you keep letting everything move at its own pace, she’ll die again. And you’ll lose her again.

Paul looked away. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling anger and fear mix inside his chest like ancient poison. He knew his sister was right. Alia always knew more than she let on, and if she spoke of danger… it was because the threat was already rooted.

But he also knew what happened when he pushed too hard. What happened when he forced her.

—This time she won’t die, he finally said through clenched teeth.

Alia finally looked at him, tearing her gaze from Irulan. Her lips curved into a dark smile, a grimace steeped in certainty. The spectral glow of her body flickered, like a candle battered by the wind.

—I know— she whispered.—Because this time… you won’t let her escape.

And then she looked at Irulan again, her face softening for a moment. There was something almost maternal in her, in that condemned figure, as if she felt pity for the sleeping princess… or envy. Paul couldn’t tell which.

Irulan stirred slightly in her sleep. Just a twitch of her fingers. But she did not wake.

---

—Did you know Paul had these artificial gardens built just for you, princess?— Alia said softly, walking by her side while the dead desert wind barely whispered among the still leaves.

Irulan’s eyes were fixed on the scene before them. Herself —a younger, sweeter, more naïve version— laughed while playing with Paul and Chani’s twins. Ghanima laughed with her face dusted with earth and fake flowers. Leto, on the other hand, watched everything gravely, as if the world already weighed on him.

—I didn’t know… —Irulan replied in a low voice, with that trembling born when the heart wants to believe something impossible.

—When Paul took the throne, the old palace of Kaitain was destroyed. —Alia continued, her tone serene but laden with a painful undertone—. The heart of the Empire could no longer beat there. It was a political, strategic… cruel decision.

Irulan felt a dull blow to her chest. As if the echo of that loss still lived within her, even though she barely remembered the event.

—You begged him not to do it. —Alia went on, slowly turning toward her—. Not to destroy your home. You were crying like a child, and he… he looked at you with those eyes of his. He didn’t say anything. He just gave the order. But then, in secret, he created this.

Irulan squinted, a fragmented memory crawling up from some buried corner. She, dressed in white, in an imperial hall, her voice breaking, eyes pleading. Paul, rigid, silent. And then… the fire.

—This garden isn’t real. —Alia said, lifting a blue flower that looked perfect but had no scent or weight—. Nothing here is. Neither the trees, nor the breeze, nor the water. But he made it work, even in the middle of the desert. For you. So you wouldn’t miss Kaitain so much.

Irulan lowered her gaze. The flower Alia held dissolved in the air like ash.

And yet, her chest ached sweetly. As if that gesture, that artificial garden, contained more truth than any word Paul had ever said to her.

—Sometimes monsters love too, Irulan. —Alia murmured, as if she could read her thoughts.

And for a moment, in that dead corner of the cursed palace, the memory of a garden came to life.

The next memory was different. Not as heartbreaking as the others, but uncomfortable, charged with a tension Irulan couldn’t quite name.

She was in the twins’ room, holding little Leto, who slept with a furrowed brow. In front of her, Paul held Ghanima, who was playing with a lock of her father’s hair, unaware of the heavy atmosphere among the adults.

But Paul wasn’t looking at his daughter.

His eyes were fixed on Irulan.

Blue, deep, motionless. As if he wanted to memorize every detail of her face, as if in that silence he wanted to tell her something he still didn’t dare to say.

Irulan felt her skin prickle, even from outside the memory, as if the heat of those eyes still brushed her in the present.

—He always looked at you like that. —a voice whispered beside her.

Alia.

She was there again, floating with her black dress swaying in a wind that didn’t exist. Irulan wasn’t surprised. Not anymore.

—Now that I think about it, he did it all the time. —Alia said with a half smile, her voice heavy with uncomfortable certainty—. Even when you didn’t notice. He looked at you like you were his center, his compass, his sin.

Irulan squeezed the baby tighter in her arms. She felt vulnerable, exposed inside a memory she couldn’t control. And yet, she didn’t take her eyes off those eyes she had so feared and desired.

—I’m almost sure that even now, asleep, he still looks at you like that. —Alia added, with a tone halfway between teasing and warning—. You sleep, princess, but he never blinks.

And though she didn’t want to admit it, Irulan knew it too.

Because even in her deepest dreams, there was always a constant feeling: Paul’s red eyes… watching her.

---

—What will you do when she remembers everything? —Alia’s voice floated like a soft poison in the room. It wasn’t mockery, it wasn’t a warning; it was certainty—. When she remembers all her lives. Not just the original one, Paul. Also that one… where she was married. The one where you tore her husband from her right before her eyes. Where you became her monster.

Irulan had been unconscious for two days. Two days trapped deep inside herself. Paul knew it, could feel her, spinning inside the abyss of her memories, each one sharper than the last.

He didn’t need Alia to speak to him. He remembered.

He remembered with exactitude the expression on that thirty-five-year-old Irulan’s face entering the palace, smiling next to a man who wasn’t him. A man who loved her. A man she loved back.

He remembered the kiss. The tenderness. The pride in her gaze as she watched that man document the pieces of the abandoned palace to preserve history.

And how, in the blink of an eye, the world burned.

The explorer’s body fell to the ground, no neck, no blood. Only Paul’s hands, stained, hot, trembling with rage… and something else. Something dark. Something that had always been inside him.

Irulan screamed. She threw herself at her husband’s corpse. She cried with such pure pain that even the cracked walls of the palace seemed to shudder.

He didn’t stop. He held her. Locked her away. Whispered between his teeth that she was safe. Safe.

He remembered how every scream of hers for her husband was a new wound in his sick soul. How envy turned to hatred. How the need for her to remember became obsession. And how, little by little, Irulan’s mind broke under the pressure of his hands, his voice, his twisted love.

—You drove her mad. —Alia whispered.

Paul said nothing.

—To the edge of throwing herself from the tower —she continued, impassive—. And when she finally did it, it was with her memories still not fully reaching her.

Silence. A silence denser than night itself.

But Alia was not finished.

—And when she remembers her children? —Her words were blades now—. When she remembers the screams? The warm little bodies in her arms. The color of their eyes.

Paul closed his eyes. There they were. Two children, soft laughter and small dreams. Irulan’s children. Children she had with another.

He couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t share her.

And then he did. He killed them. With his own hands. Buried them in the garden she loved so much.

He saw her break. Saw her try to keep breathing when she had no reason to. And when she took her life again, now with a silent dagger, Paul knew she deserved it.

—If everything goes according to plan… she will understand. —he finally said, weakly—. Like a man who has lived too long. Like a god who has lost his faith.

Alia smiled. Her spectral form spun in the air like smoke that doesn’t dissipate.

—Understand? You? —she mocked softly—. Paul, dear brother… you only know how to love until destruction.

---

Irulan was trapped. Not in a cell, not in a physical cage, but in a heartbreaking memory that repeated with unbearable precision. Her body burned, not from desire, but from the harshness with which that dream— that memory?—possessed her relentlessly. On top of Paul, naked, riding him like the world was ending and he was the only thing keeping her alive.

Each thrust was a mute command, each gasp from her an involuntary surrender. Paul’s hands didn’t ask for permission; they gripped her with voracious firmness, marking her hips, pushing her faster, harder, as if his soul needed to leave a scar on hers. Sweat, shared breath, friction: everything felt so real that Irulan trembled even awake.

—You move well, huh, princess? —Alia’s voice tore through the scene like a knife in open flesh. Mocking. Shameless. Sitting in a nearby chair, a glass of wine between her fingers, watching as if it were a private show, her laughter was a sweet poison in the room.

Irulan screamed. Not from pleasure. From rage, horror, a humiliation that corroded her skin like acid. But her body kept moving, guided by the muscle memory of that moment, while Paul ravaged her like an unleashed storm, murmuring her name between clenched teeth with the desperation of a marked man.

—I bet my brother wants nothing more than to take you like that again —Alia said, her voice heavy with a serene sadism, like someone who knows the darkest secrets of the world and wields them like a whip.

Irulan gasped, eyes squeezed shut, but the memory wouldn’t let go. The pleasurable pain, the violent rhythm, Paul’s fingers digging into her flesh as if he hated needing her as much as she needed him.

It wasn’t love. It was hunger. It was damnation.

And she was chained to him by an invisible thread that cut deeper than any blade.

In that darkness, the dream felt more real than her life.
And Paul, her jailer, her cruel monster, was the only light she had left. A light that burned her alive from within.

—I-I want... I want to wake up... —Irulan moaned, her voice barely a broken thread as her body involuntarily bounced against the man she now understood as hers. Her husband. Her executioner. Her eternal mark.

—But you can’t, princess... —Alia spoke with false sweetness, as if talking to a lost child. —You still have more to remember.

The wet, lacerating sound of bodies colliding mixed with desperate gasps. Irulan wanted to cover her ears, close her eyes, disappear. But she stayed there. Bound. Possessed by a memory that devoured her.

—Enough! Stop it! —she screamed, with rage, shame, a burning helplessness that shattered into a new moan.

But Alia only laughed, raising her wine glass as if to toast the demons lurking in the shadows.

—You know nothing, Irulan... You haven’t even reached the part where your curse began to form. You haven’t yet seen the true face of the love you begged for.

—W-what...? —Irulan stammered, barely conscious, eyes wide open just as the climax tore through her. Her body tensed, convulsed, feeling the warm and brutal explosion of Paul’s seed filling her inside.

A strangled cry. Involuntary tears.

And then, darkness.

Deep. Suffocating. Absolute.

But it wasn’t the end.

It was just the next door she had to cross.

---

Irulan blinked, and the darkness vanished like fog shattered by sunlight.

Now she was sitting at a breakfast table. A long, carved wooden table, adorned with fresh fruit, warm bread, steaming cups. Everything felt warm, peaceful, almost familiar. Across from her, Paul, with slightly tousled hair, poured juice with a calm smile, while two children—Paul and Chani’s sons—laughed between bites and clumsy words.

Irulan stayed still, confused, her heart pounding fiercely.

She was... happy. That’s what it seemed.
Her. Paul. The children.

Irulan’s body still trembled inside, as if the shadow of the previous memory still dwelled in her guts. She had felt it, so real, so alive... The motion, the flesh, the heat. The way she had ridden him, panting like a marked female. The way he had filled her...

And then she looked at Paul. That Paul. So calm, so masculine in his simplicity, so protective. Cutting pieces of bread for the children, tenderly wiping a smear of jam from Ghanima’s chin.

Irulan swallowed hard. Her cheeks flamed at remembering him inside her. Is this what wet dreams feel like...? she thought, lowering her gaze with an undeniable blush.

—Wow, princess —a voice whispered beside her.

Irulan jumped. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Alia sat there. Like a shadow with a sister’s face. Lipstick on, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

—I thought it was good for you to see something calmer after that scorching memory —Alia said mockingly. —Although, honestly, I’m not sure this is better... Look at them, doesn’t your heart melt? What a beautiful scene... you, him, their children.

Irulan clenched her fists in her lap. Her voice trembled.

—Is this real?

—As real as you want it to be —Alia whispered, sipping from her glass as if the wine were blood. —But you haven’t reached the end yet, dear. This... this is just the mirage before the abyss.

Paul smiled at her from across the table.

—Are you alright, Irulan? —he asked gently, while one of the children called her “mom.”

And her world began to tremble again.

---

—I think that’s enough for now. She’ll wake in a few minutes. She’ll be very hungry, so make sure to feed her —Alia said, floating in the air with that ethereal aura that always surrounded her, her voice as light as the whisper of a bad omen. She didn’t say goodbye, didn’t look back. She simply passed through the wall like a ghost that no longer needed a presence.

Paul sighed, a rough sound filled with contained frustration. He wasn’t mad at her, not entirely. Alia had done what she thought necessary, as she always did. But Paul couldn’t help the pang of fear that pierced his chest. He truly hoped Alia hadn’t pushed too many memories at once. He didn’t want her mind to collapse under the weight of so many lives, so many versions of herself dying over and over.

He rose from the chair where he had sat for hours, eyes fixed on Irulan’s sleeping body. She was tangled in the sheets like a wounded creature, forehead sweaty, brow furrowed, murmuring words that weren’t entirely hers yet. Paul watched her for a few more seconds before kneeling beside her.

He carefully traced his fingers along her cheek, the cold touch contrasting with the warmth of her skin.

—This time I’ll do it right... I promise —he murmured.

Because this Irulan... this Irulan wasn’t like the others. This one still had hope in her eyes. This one didn’t hate him yet.

And he wasn’t going to let her be lost. Not this time.

When Irulan opened her eyes again, this time she didn’t find herself trapped in another memory, but back in her present. She felt dizzy, thirsty, and her stomach was completely empty.

In front of her, Paul sat on the bed holding a tray full of food. His red eyes stared at her intently, with that intensity that made her shiver. Irulan felt a tug in her chest seeing them, realizing they were no longer the blue she remembered in her dreams.

—Hello again, darling —Paul said softly.

—I’m your wife —Irulan whispered suddenly, not quite knowing why she said it, but feeling the certainty lodged deep in her bones.

Paul smiled, slow, satisfied.

—Yes, you are —he replied, voice heavy with something darker than joy.

—All this time... you were telling the truth. I... I have been here before. I have lived another life... —Irulan whispered, finally surrendering to madness, accepting the impossible as inevitable.

—And what have you remembered, my love? —Paul asked in a low voice as he moved closer, closing the space between their bodies, as if he couldn’t bear to be away from her one second longer.

Irulan didn’t answer immediately. She stayed silent, swallowing hard, feeling the heat rise up her neck and color her cheeks. Paul noticed it instantly, of course. He noticed everything. Her blush, the way she pressed her legs together under the sheets, how she avoided looking him in the eyes.

An almost predatory smile spread across his face.

—Oh —he said, barely a whisper. —One of those memories.

Irulan finally looked at him, embarrassed and annoyed by how easily he read her mind, her body, her soul. But before she could say a word, Paul took a piece of fruit from the tray and slowly brought it to her lips.

—Come on, eat —he said with dangerous sweetness. —You need to regain your strength.

She opened her mouth, more out of inertia than obedience, letting him feed her. His fingers brushed her lips a second longer than necessary, his red eyes fixed on hers—intense, impatient, dark with contained desire.

—You dreamed it, didn’t you? —Paul murmured as he offered another bite. —When you took me with that desperation, like you wanted to engrave me on your skin.

Irulan squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the earth would swallow her whole. But she remembered. The weight of his body, his hoarse voice between gasps, the rhythm he set from below. Her name whispered again and again between lips stained with love, with destiny.

—Paul... —she whispered, but her voice broke in her throat.

—Don’t be ashamed —he said, leaning closer to her. —It was real. You lived it. We lived it. And it will happen again, Irulan. When you’re ready. When you ask for it.

His breath brushed her cheek as he brought another piece of fruit to her lips.

—Because this time, my love... this time I’m not going to lose you.

Irulan spent the whole day telling Paul the memories she had lived. He listened attentively, not interrupting, feeding her with the same devotion as always, as if every word she said was sacred.

—Alia told me you created the palace garden for me —Irulan murmured after sipping some water.

Paul raised an eyebrow slightly.

—Alia was present in your memories? —he asked, surprised. He had assumed his sister was just pushing the memories into Irulan, not living them with her, not walking beside her inside them.

—Yes... in all of them. Even that one —Irulan said in a quieter voice, referring to the intimate, most intense memory of all.

Paul let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

—God, that woman is crazy —he muttered with a hint of annoyance.

Irulan lowered her gaze, as if her thoughts got lost in the shadows of the palace.

—Is she... here too? —she asked with some doubt, as if unsure whether she wanted the answer.

—She is. She usually hides between the palace walls —Paul replied in a neutral tone.

—Then why haven’t I seen her? —Irulan pressed, feeling growing unease.

Paul turned to her, his red eyes shining under the dim room light.

—Because she’s a ghost.

---

Definitely, Irulan was living in a damned tale... but not a good one. Not a fairy tale, but a nightmare. First, a bloodsucking creature obsessed with her. Then, a woman trapped in a magical coma, locked in a display case like a sacred trophy. A child who could grow and regress in age at will. And now, ghosts.

Irulan felt reality cracking around her.

If all that was true, if vampires, curses, specters, and endless eternities existed, then what was she? What kind of creature was she truly to be bound to all this? What kind of curse kept her trapped in this eternal cycle?

Fear coiled in her chest like a serpent. Not only for what surrounded her... but for what she herself could become.

—Paul... what exactly am I? —Irulan asked, her voice broken.

—My wife —he answered without hesitation.

—I don’t mean that —she said more forcefully, more desperately. —Am I some kind of creature, a specter, a cursed shadow? What kind of curse do I have to be bound to all this?

Paul fell silent. His red eyes, so fixed on her as always, seemed almost empty for a moment. As if contemplating something very, very distant. As if he didn’t know how to tell her the truth... or didn’t want to.

—My wife —he finally repeated, softer, almost like a prayer. —That’s what you are, Irulan. That’s what you’ve been. That’s what you’ll always be.

Irulan let out a sigh full of anger and frustration.

—And that’s all I get from you? A title you repeat like it’s a cage?

—You’ll find out eventually... yourself —Paul said calmly, almost as if talking about the weather.

Irulan clenched her teeth, frustrated.

—No more riddles! —she snapped. —I want the truth now, Paul! I deserve to know!

Paul came a little closer, with that calm that sometimes felt more like a threat.

—Then focus on remembering, darling —he whispered, his red eyes burning like embers. —Only you can see what’s buried inside you. Only you can find out who you really are... completely.

The silence that followed felt like a sentence.