Promise //Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen// Dune

29 - KHALA

Giedi Prime, 10191

"Let me out!" Khala's voice echoed off the stark walls, a desperate plea lost in the suffocating stillness of the chamber. Angry tears cascaded down her cheeks, mingling with the streaks of dirt and sweat that marred her face. Her hands, raw and bloodied from pounding on the unyielding door, trembled with exhaustion and frustration. Her eyes stung with each new tear that trailed down her dirt-streaked face, the salt mixing with the taste of her despair.

Collapsed upon the frigid floor, Khala's body felt like lead, each movement a herculean effort against the weight of her despair. Her fingers clawed desperately at the metal collar that encircled her neck, its cold embrace a constant reminder of just how out of reach she was from her key to freedom. The effort of trying to pry it off often left her neck red and raw, with no progress.

The air hung heavy with the stench of salt and metallic blood, a suffocating blanket that pressed down upon her, stealing the very breath from her lungs. Her eyes hurt each time a new tear rolled down her face.

In the dim light, Khala's eyes struggled to pierce the gloom, her vision clouded by a haze of tears and hopelessness. The room, once familiar, had been stripped bare, its barren walls offering no solace, no reprieve from the torment of her confinement.

Dust motes danced in the stagnant air, casting eerie shadows that seemed to mock her futile struggles.

The remnants of her meager sustenance lay scattered around her—a stale piece of bread on the floor, spilled flavorless soup and a shattered porcelain bowl. Her stomach was wailing in the absence of food, of spice, but she refused to relent to them.

The silence of the chamber was broken only by the occasional drip of water, a solitary echo in the emptiness that surrounded her.

Khala had no inkling of what Feyd had meant by "taking care of her," for there was little care to be found in the desolation of her surroundings. The only semblance of a resting place was a crude, rock-hard mattress that offered no respite from the unforgiving surface beneath. A tattered bedsheet, worn thin by time and neglect, served as a feeble attempt at warmth, though Khala had torn it asunder in a fit of rage, leaving only remnants of fabric strewn about the room.

Even the sands of Arrakis, with their harsh and unyielding terrain, provided more solace than this bleak chamber. At least beneath the open sky, Khala had felt the embrace of the desert winds, the touch of the shifting dunes beneath her feet. But here, in this cold and lifeless room, there was nothing but emptiness—a void that mirrored the emptiness within her soul.

A curt knock reverberated through the chamber, a stark interruption in the suffocating silence that enveloped Khala's world. Refusing to acknowledge the intrusion, she remained rooted in her defiance, her stubborn resolve unyielding even as the door behind her was forced open, thrusting her along with it.

"Throwing a tantrum, I see," Feyd's voice sliced through the air, sending a chill down Khala's spine. His piercing gaze swept over the disarray of her surroundings—the torn bedsheets, the shattered remnants of her meager sustenance—his expression a mixture of disdain and amusement, "you're a mess, Leonara."

"Fuck you," Khala hissed, her words dripping with venom as she met his gaze with fiery defiance. But beneath her outward bravado, a seed of fear gnawed at her, threatening to unravel the fragile facade she clung to.

This man was unpredictable; she could never tell what he was going to say next, when he was going to show a glimmer of emotion.

Feyd tilted his head, studying her disheveled form with a clinical intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. She had not eaten, showered, or done anything other than cry and curse for the past two days, and the toll of her captivity was etched into every line of her weary frame.