Chapter 1

“We make our own justice. We make it here on Arrakis—win or die.” - Dune

Count Lucar Varmoth soars over Arrakeen on his giant silver moth, its broad wings cleaving through the molten dust laden air. As he flies, his mind drifts as he acknowledges that the future of his House is on his shoulders—a mantra as real as the pulsing insect beneath him. Below, stands Lavro, House Varmoth’s stalwart Mentat advisor leaning against the hot stone balustrade of the residency balcony, his fingertips grazing the carvings of ancient storms. He watches Lucar’s descent and feels the familiar coil of dread as data flows through his mind. Inked contracts unraveling Harkonnen malice. The echo of his vision foreseeing the blaze on Giedi Prime that claimed the life of Leopold Varmoth; but alas the stubborn Count did not take heed of Lavro’s fatal warning. Now the new Count has been appointed, a novice in the ways of leadership. Perhaps his younger brother, Amar, would have proven the more prudent choice. In Lavro’s reckoning, actions are punishable only by fact and he contemplates whether history’s flames will again burn consuming the heart of House Varmoth. His mind brings up the analysis of the disappearance of three House Agents: Geeta Varmoth, cousin of Count Lucar; Talaval Weir, investigator for the House Guard; and Soram Vieno, a House technician. Has that same fatal design been forged to grind House Varmoth into the shifting sands of Arrakis?

A crackle from the House personal radios interrupts the silence, House Steward Farren’s voice fractures the morning calm: the Eastside Medical Clinic has been attacked with smoke billowing into the atmosphere.

Dali Tarek Nivahn banks his ornithopter low, wings pulsating against the spice filled air. As a smuggler, he’s flown darker cargos through sharper storms, yet the sight of civilian peril ignites his unquenchable loyalty to the downtrodden. Beside him, Takshaka Vahal snaps orders: “Clear the building! Save anyone you can!”, as six House Guards spill onto the searing sand. Takshaka’s cautious gaze sweeps the sand soaked scene, calculating every choke point. He distrusts every shadow, every flicker in the smoke—he notes that only the worthy can tame lightning and he intends his House to survive the storm.

Lucar plunges out of the sky on his giant moth, like a duelist leaping at dawn, skeletal talons of his biocraft glinting. He vanishes into a shattered seventh-floor window and emerges moments later, cradling a soot-streaked child and glides to the ground with style and precision. Without hesitation, he rises again and reenters the building, returning with his arms supporting a pregnant mother, her eyes wide with relief.

Below, Lundrak, the ever present Spymaster and Lavro crouch at the clinic’s edge, earbuds pressed to the wind. The Mentat’s mind detecting footprints leading southward, from military boots not prevalent amongst the population of Arrakeen. He files each detail away as he leads Lundrak and Dali down narrow, winding streets, the South Suburbs swallowing them into the shadows.

Their pursuit leads to the sabotaged power plant where the trail goes cold. Dali’s gaze lands on a well-worn dagger, its hilt etched with House Varmoth’s lightning-moth emblem. His smuggler’s instinct flares: this heirloom isn’t cargo—it’s betrayal. Dali relays this information and Takshaka’s jaw tightens; the dagger is Talaval Weir’s and must have been dropped following a malevolent altercation. Before they can speak, Farren’s voice hisses from the radio: “Count Lucar, you are requested to return to the House Varmoth Residency. Court awaits.”

In the Great Hall, vaulted beneath frescoes of storm-blasted skies and burning dunes, petitioners gather like specters in the light of glow globes. Bussot Alger, known to Lundrak as a veteran spice miner, strides forward. Alongside him Michi Valadar of House Security, his golden moth sigil gleaming in the light of the glowglobes. Their disagreement is over three recently procured ornithopters, the two men posturing between profit and protection. Lavro’s cool mind calculates the answer and whispers it in Lucar’s ear: two for the spice harvesters, one for security. Lucar leans forward, charisma dancing in his eyes, and delivers the verdict with a gentleman’s flourish.

Next, Tecla Darr kneels: the seamstress, whose fine thread warms the cold nights, pleads for rations for the community’s starving children. Lucar seizes the opportunity for benevolence shrouded in self-interest; he nods and House stores yield bread and water to the starving.

A hush falls as Esseda Ulako, the Harkonnen envoy, glides in on maroon silk, the sound of her boots echoing like distant thunder. She boasts of House Harkonnen rescuing Geeta Varmoth and extends an olive branch barbed with thorns. Lucar’s polished courtesy fractures when she extends an invitation at the behest of Governor Rabban Harkonnen. He cuts her off with a measured refusal, instead dispatching a House Varmoth physician to Carthag for an independent report. The verdict arrives like the sudden appearance of a giant sandworm: Geeta’s wound was not made by a Chrysknife, as the Harkonnen Doctor claims but by a military blade, and Geeta’s memories are clouded as if by a Coriolis Storm. Four Harkonnen guards shadowed the doctor throughout his visit and security in Carthag remains impenetrable.

Under Arrakeen’s twin moons, Lundrak slips into a back-alley bazaar to meet Mervin Mercur. Solari exchange hands to reveal rumours of outsiders lurking in the South Suburbs. Lavro returns to the power plant, his Mentat mind unraveling clues: only a master technician could orchestrate such precise sabotage. In the teeming markets, Dali’s silver tongue teases tales of a one-eyed man who has been leading the raids. Before dawn, the city murmurs: House Varmoth hunts its enemies.

Shortly before midnight, Lucar summons the community leaders of Arrakeen to a moonlit courtyard. He embarks on persuasion that courts an alliance, his voice carrying the thrill of power used well. The leaders reveal a hidden tunnel beneath a ruined townhouse in the South Suburbs. As the council disperses, Takshaka scales a rocky knoll, using oil lens binoculars to map every chokepoint and blind curve in his mind. At last he taps his radio: “Send Zibid-i Paro. Only he can slip into the darkness unseen.”

Beneath Arrakis’s pallid moons, the stage is set. A lone shadow will descend into the earth to perform a silent ambush. The desert holds its breath; the next move will decide their fates.