Promise //Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen// Dune

55 - KHALA

Giedi Prime, 10193

"Stand, or choose your champion."

No.

But thoughts couldn't change what was to come. Thoughts wouldn't change how Feyd emerged from the darkness to face Paul to what would undoubtedly be his death.

There had to be another way.

The great hall of the Imperial Palace was thick with tension, the air itself seemed to vibrate with the anticipation of what was to come. The vast chamber, adorned with opulent drapes and cold stone. Eyes fixed on the two figures at its center, they waited in silence, as if the slightest noise might tip the scales of fate.

Paul Atreides, stood motionless, his blue-within-blue eyes locked on his opponent. His presence was commanding, every inch of him exuding a quiet confidence that unsettled even the most hardened warriors in the room. At his side, his mother, Lady Jessica, watched with an intensity that only a mother could muster—knowing the peril her son was in, yet unable to intervene.

Across from Paul stood Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the Emperor's chosen champion and the last hope of House Harkonnen. Feyd's dark eyes glinted with malice, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He was a predator, eager to taste blood, his mind already imagining the glory of victory. The tension between the two was palpable, a silent promise of violence that hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

The Emperor Shaddam IV, seated on his throne, watched with a carefully concealed dread. The balance of power was slipping from his grasp, and he knew it. This duel was more than just a fight; it was a battle for the future of the empire itself.

In the shadows near the edge of the hall, Khala watched with a heart heavy with dread. Her eyes, filled with a mix of love and terror, were fixed on Feyd. She had come to the palace in the hope of witnessing Feyd's victory, a triumph that would solidify their place at the pinnacle of power. But now, as she watched him prepare for the duel, her hope was overshadowed by an uneasy foreboding.

The silence of the hall was broken by the sharp, metallic scrape of Feyd unsheathing his crysknife. The blade gleamed with a deadly promise under the harsh lights, its edge catching the flickering illumination. Paul mirrored his opponent's action, drawing his own weapon with a deliberate, almost ceremonial grace. The crowd watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it felt almost tangible, a living thing that seemed to pulse with anticipation.

"May thy knife chip and shatter."

Feyd's eyes darted towards Khala's. He knew what was to come. She knew what was to come.

"May thy knife chip and shatter."

There was nothing she could do to stop him. She would not be able to use the voice in front of so many reverend mothers and the Kwzats Haderachs.

And even if somehow, in another universe, Feyd had won, Khala would've still lost a friend, who nontheless had gone astray, was still a friend.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Time itself seemed to stretch, the moment suspended in a delicate balance between life and death.

Then, with a sudden burst of speed, Feyd lunged. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, as he attacked with the precision of a viper striking at its prey. Khala's breath caught in her throat as she saw Feyd's blade flash toward Paul, each strike a testament to his lethal skill.

But Paul was ready. He sidestepped the blow with ease, his own knife flashing out in a blur of motion. The sound of clashing blades echoed through the hall, sharp and fierce, as the two combatants engaged in a deadly dance. Khala could see the raw intensity in Paul's eyes, the way he moved with an almost otherworldly grace, as if he was orchestrating the fight with every beat of his heart.