Chapter 3

“What benefits Harkonnen benefits the Landsraad. What benefits the Landsraad benefits CHOAM. And CHOAM benefits all. We must all work together. Economic fertility sustains us and I wish merely to manure that ground. Those who accuse me of corruptive practices simply envy my success. My only answer is, ‘Why are they so poor’” – Baron Vladimir Harkonnen (Dune Encyclopaedia)

Lucar Varmoth studied his cousin across the break of morning light, the patterns of the Varmoth crest casting long silhouettes across the stone floor. His voice, sharp and clear, sliced through the warm air perfumed by spice-tea and roasted grains.

“Tell me, Geeta. What do you remember of them?”

She blinked slowly. Her features bore no outward sign of trauma. No scar. No tremor. But her eyes—deep and unknowable—spoke of absence. “Nothing. Only the fight and being taken by ornithopter. Then nothing.” A pause. “They did something to my mind, Lucar.”

Lucar’s fingers curled slowly on the tablecloth. Harkonnen hands, meddling. Always meddling. Poison, subterfuge, manipulation—their signature was not in what was seen, but in what was not remembered.

Their contemplations were broken by the whisper of leather boots and steel. A House Guard bent low beside Takshaka, murmuring. The House Guard Captain stiffened. The colour draining from his cheeks.

“They’re dead,” he said, voice hollow. “The prisoners. The ones we captured. Two of our guards, too.”

Lucar rose. “How?”

“Poison gas. Grenade left in their cell.” Takshaka spat the words like bile, already dispatching orders. Beneath his voice: a tremor. Not fear. Fury.

The quiet meal fractured into motion. The Harkonnens had reached inside the walls of Varmoth again, and still, their oily fingerprints eluded consequence.

Shortly after, an unexpected visitor arrived: Tamara Pilru of House Vertas, tall and serene in a robe the colour of twilight and burnt emerald, walked into the great hall with two silent guards and a personal scribe who walked as if he saw nothing and everything at once.

Lucar recognised the scent of diplomacy before she even spoke—a subtle perfume of etiquette, caution, and concealed blades.

Pilru bowed, hands clasped in the old manner. “Noble cousins of House Varmoth,” she intoned. “We bring gifts—cloth, and truth.”

To Kleya, a gown like moth-wings refracting violet and green. To Lucar, a suit inked with a death moth pattern, visible only under scrutiny, a personalised nod to House Varmoth. Tokens—yes. But also messages. Vertas did not speak in common language alone.

“The Count’s death,” Pilru continued, “was no rogue act. House Vertas has… reason to believe House Harkonnen engineered it. We offer an agent. A witness. One who has seen what we believe you suspect. They will meet you on Giedi Prime.”

Lucar’s eyes narrowed. Across the table, Kleya leaned forward, Bene Gesserit senses humming—but the woman spoke with conviction, not deceit.

Lucar inclined his head. “We accept.”

The emissaries of House Varmoth travelled to Giedi Prime by Heighliner. Nineteen days in the still silence of space, where the stars were mute witnesses and politics hung like swords suspended above their heads.

Below them, Giedi Prime unfolded like a disease. From orbit, it was night and machine, smoke and steel. As they descended, the city of Barony emerged—a brutalist testament to power, devotion, and cruelty. The arena loomed: a temple of blood.

And there, to meet them, floated Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. A grotesque balloon of fat and skin, his suspensors whining softly as he bowed—a mockery of courtesy.

“My noble cousins of House Varmoth,” he said, his voice smooth as oil and just as choking. “Welcome to our humble city. May this visit mark the beginning of a new accord.”

Lucar did not bow. “My father was murdered on this world.”

The Baron’s eyes gleamed. “And such a tragedy it was. You have my most profound condolences.”

Rage boiled behind Lucar’s calm exterior. Kleya, ever the mask, stepped forward. Her voice slid like silk over knives. “He grieves, Baron. We trust your hospitality will keep us safe?”

A subtle modulation. The Voice. Piter de Vries, watching like a spider, took note with a flicker of irritation behind his glassy eyes.

The Harkonnen palace was vast and cold. Opulence over function. Size over soul. Piter led them through it like a schoolmaster guiding slow children, his voice curt and smug.

“You’ll dine with the Baron tonight. In his viewing box. The games will be… dedicated to you.”

From the rooms, the arena below yawned like a mouth. Smoke from burning incense and oil fires drifted across the killing floor.

In the city, Dali vanished into Barony’s underbelly. Beneath false skin and the folds of a Cibus Hood, he traded whispers and spice with Terris Hake, a merchant who sold truth in crates and secrets in silence.

That night, the games began.

The House Varmoth entourage were led by tram across the massive complex, through corridors designed not for comfort but awe. The Harkonnen architecture was not meant to shelter—it was meant to remind. You are small. We are eternal.

Inside the Baron’s box, all was indulgence. Statues of obscene grandeur. Velvet lounges. Food gilded with gold and blood. The arena, framed in glass, stretched below like an executioner’s stage.

“Count Lucar Varmoth,” the Baron announced. “A fine young man. With a spine.” His tone was syrupy with malice.

“We shall enjoy seeing the blood flow like spice,” Lucar replied. The words hung, sharp as razors.

The Baron offered Lucar some Slig Steaks, his fat lips pulling wide. “This meat is my favourite. The finest in the Imperium.”

Lucar, quick off the mark, “Well, you are what you eat!”

The Baron gave Lucar a cold stare and then let out a sudden, maniacal laugh, acknowledging his dark humour.

The games began and were savage. Combatants died for entertainment, while the nobility sipped spice-wine and exchanged wagers. Lavro calculated with Mentat precision; Kleya watched the crowd, reading the echoes of fear behind their forced cheers.

The final battle was fierce. Ishaan, a titan of flesh and fury, slew her opponent in a dance of blades and crimson. The crowd roared.

Then—she turned, climbed the platform, and raised her voice.

“I dedicate my death to the freedom of all from the bastard Baron!”

The explosion was brilliant. Red. Instant. Death bloomed inside the arena, but a shield flared—thin, elegant, and cruel. Those who were in the Harkonnen viewing box lived. The Harkonnen guards surrounding Ishaan did not.

Chaos.

The Baron snarled, red-faced and sweat-soaked, as his guards escorted him through hidden passages. The guests were herded like cattle.

In the fray, knives flashed. Two guards died—throats opened by unseen assailants.

Takshaka ignited his shield. “Stay close,” he barked. “To the bridge!”

They moved through fire and panic. In the chaos, Telgu vanished, bowing with civility. “If you need help,” he said, “send a courier.”

And then—a signal. A figure in the crowd. Vertas. A whisper: “Tomorrow. Second shift. Fourth forge-ward.”

And he was gone.

The next morning, over a quiet breakfast, Piter de Vries arrived uninvited. His tone was light, venom wrapped in honey. Takshaka enquired about the safety of the Harkonnen guests.

“Yes, all escaped…those of importance.”

Takshaka growled. “Two of your guards are dead.”

Piter smiled and under his breath muttered, “You can’t please all the people all the time.”

Lucar rose. “I will find who killed my father.”

Piter spread his hands. “Of course, my Lord. Your vendetta is a most noble pastime.”

Lucar demanded to see the wreckage of his father’s ship. Piter acquiesced with false cheer, dispatching lackeys to fly them into the wastes.

There, in the shadow of a broken sky, Lavro examined the husk of twisted metal.

“It was sabotage,” he whispered. “The engine was not faulty. An incendiary device was placed carefully to make the engine look like it failed.”

Lucar did not speak. He did not have to.

His father had been murdered. The trap had been laid in silence. And now, it is time to find proof of Harkonnen interference.