Not the ordinary hiss of wind across the erg, but a low, rhythmic pulse—like a heartbeat trapped beneath the dunes. Sister Theodosia stood at the edge of the False Wall, her stillsuit catching the twin glimmer of Arrakis’s moons. Behind her, the other acolytes of the Chapterhouse waited in silence. Ahead, the ruins of an ancient Fremen sietch, long buried before the Harkonnens ever set foot on the planet.

“Prepare the Gom Jabbar,” she told the acolytes. “We’re going to need a different kind of test tonight.”

The transmission had arrived nine days ago, encrypted in a forgotten Bene Gesserit cypher. No origin. No signature. Just that string—h264—and a set of coordinates leading here, to the deep desert where even the worms feared to tread. The Reverend Mother Superior had called it a provocation. A trap. But Theodosia saw something else: a prophecy bleeding through time.

She stood, drew her kindjal from its sheath, and turned back toward the entrance. Outside, the twin moons had aligned into a single eye. The sand had stopped whispering.