Arrakis slept under a bronze sky when Paul Muad'Dib, son of Duke Leto, walked to the edge of a dune, observing the Harkonnen outpost at the foot of a distant mountain. The heat of the day was fading, but the air still vibrated with the echo of the sun.
Beside him, Stilgar waited silently. Behind him, dozens of Fremen stood silently ready. This was not an army of common soldiers. They were sand shadows. They were the buried cry of the planet. Each knew their place. Each was ready to kill.
"There," Stilgar pointed out, "the Harkonnens have their store of spice and water. If we take it, we strike at their heart."
Paul nodded, his eyes fixed on the target. The Harkonnen camp glowed dimly with surveillance lights. There were turrets, sentries, and patrolling drones. But the Fremen knew the desert better than any Imperial technology.
"We will attack from the dry Wadi bed. We will enter with the wind at our backs. Let them think it's just sand."
Stilgar glanced at Paul. "You are young... but you think like an old man. Like a Naib."
Paul didn't respond. In his mind, every possibility had already been explored. Every variable, calculated. Not because he was a general, but because he saw paths others could not.
He returned to the Fremen camp, where the warriors awaited his word.
"Tonight, we stop hiding. Tonight, we take what was stolen from us. Not for revenge... but for justice."
Silence was his answer. A silence that burned.
Then, as one, the Fremen began to move. They checked their crysknives, loaded their spice bombs, sealed their stillsuits. Every gesture was part of a dance learned in death and dust.
Chani approached Paul. She handed him a small vial.
"Distilled water. For your return."
Paul took it, his fingers brushing hers.
"I'll come back."
She smiled. "You have no choice now. You're ours."
Hours later, night covered the desert like a dark blanket. The stars seemed closer, as if the universe were holding its breath.
The Fremen slid across the sand in formations of five. From a distance, they looked like simple ripples of the terrain.
Paul advanced at the forefront, his crysknife strapped to his belt, his mind focused. Every grain of sand beneath his feet knew that the desert had changed.
Reaching the Wadi, they hid behind a ridge. Paul raised his hand.
"Now."
The first spice explosives exploded with a dull roar. Columns of sand and fire rose into the air. The Harkonnens, taken by surprise, sprang from their barracks, disoriented.
The Fremen launched themselves like an avalanche. Swift, lethal, relentless.
Paul fell upon the first sentry like a falcon. His crysknife slashed without hesitation. Blood stained the sand.
Screams. Gunfire. Alarms. But it was too late.
Stilgar led the second group, flanking the turrets. With precise movements, they disabled the defense systems and blew open the doors to the water tower.
Inside the camp, Paul and Chani advanced through the chaos. Every step was a testament to training, pain, and determination.
A Harkonnen officer stood in their way. He aimed a rifle. Paul didn't hesitate. He threw a dagger with such precision that it sank into the enemy's throat before he could pull the trigger.
"Muad'Dib!" someone shouted. It was Korba, covered in sweat and blood.
Paul raised his arm, pointing toward the central tower.
"Aesa! Take it!"
The group rushed toward the structure. The metal stairs rattled with their footsteps. From the top, the Harkonnens tried to contain the invasion, but they were overwhelmed.
In less than half an hour, the outpost had fallen. The Imperial banner was torn down. In its place, the Fremen placed a rough cloth, marked with the symbol of the desert mouse.
Muad'Dib.
Paul stared at the horizon, his chest heaving with exertion. He didn't feel euphoria. He felt responsibility. He had taken the first step toward something he could no longer stop.
Later, at the foot of the dune, the Fremen knelt before him.
"You have done what our fathers dreamed of," Stilgar said. "You have freed the first stone of the wall."
Paul looked at his stained hands.
"And many more will come."
Deep in his heart, he felt the weight of the future. In his visions, the universe leaned toward him. But also, from the shadows, he felt that distant presence again. That other one.
The one who also rose, far away, unknown, and whose gaze met his own in dreams that were not dreams.
Kael.
But Paul didn't know that name. Yet.
He only knew that the war had begun. And the desert had chosen his voice.
Muad'Dib.
And his cry still echoed among the dunes.