The Fremen caravan moved like a silent shadow across the night desert. In the pale starlight, the stillsuits seemed to blend into the sand, each step carefully measured to avoid attracting sandworms. Paul and Jessica, now dressed in full stillsuits, marched among them, breathing the rhythm of the people who had reluctantly accepted them.
Stilgar, leading the column, stopped beside a rock formation that emerged like a stone island in a sea of dunes. With a signal of his hand, the Fremen began to disperse, deploying guards and hiding beneath the rock.
"Here we will rest," Stilgar announced softly.
Jessica, her mind always alert, sensed the tension that thickened in the air like the heat before a storm. It wasn't just exhaustion: it was the weight of something they had all been expecting. Something inevitable.
Jamis stepped forward, her face hard beneath the veil of her stillsuit. She stood before Stilgar, thumped her chest in defiance, and then looked at Paul with disdain.
"I will not accept that you take these outsiders to the sietch without them paying their price."
A murmur ran through the Fremen, but none intervened. The law was clear. If Jamis challenged, the challenge must be answered.
Stilgar turned slowly to Paul.
"Boy... he challenges you."
Paul frowned. "Challenge?"
Jessica took a step forward.
"It was I who acted against him. I am responsible."
But Stilgar shook his head.
"No. He would challenge you if he sought your death. Challenge your son. The boy must fight."
Paul felt the weight of all their eyes upon him. He understood in that instant that there was no escape. If he refused, he would be seen as a coward. If he lost, he would die. If he won...
"I accept," he said, his voice firm.
A chorus of approving murmurs rippled through the group.
Jamis smiled cruelly and tossed his cloak aside, leaving only the stillsuit wrapped around his body. Stilgar handed Paul a crys knife carved from the tooth of a sandworm.
"This is the knife of life, Muad'Dib. Clean it with your blood or his, but do not let it touch the ground."
Paul took the knife, feeling its weight, its perfect balance. His mind replayed Gurney Halleck's training, Duncan Idaho's lessons, his Bene Gesserit mother's exercises. He was faster, stronger, more precise. But this wasn't a sparring duel.
It was for the kill.
Jamis spun in a circle, gauging the distance. Paul mimicked the motion. No one spoke. No one intervened. In Fremen culture, the duel was sacred.
Jamis struck first, a low blow aimed at the belly. Paul dodged swiftly, pivoting on his back foot and launching a counterattack aimed at his opponent's exposed arm. Jamis's knife deflected the attack with a nimble motion.
For several minutes, they measured each other in attack and defense. The sand beneath their feet shifted, and the air vibrated with tension.
Paul didn't want to kill. Every time he found an opening, he stepped back, offering Jamis a way out. But the Fremen saw this as weakness.
Jessica, watching, frowned.
"Paul," she whispered to herself, "you're playing with your life."
Stilgar, at her side, also tensed.
"He doesn't understand that in our world, to fight is to fight to the death."
Jamis, emboldened, launched a furious attack. His knife grazed Paul's arm, tearing the stillsuit and leaving a red line of blood.
The pain awakened something in Paul. A brutal clarity. He understood that here, compassion was self-betrayal.
When Jamis attacked again, Paul slipped under his guard, twisted the knife, and plunged it into his enemy's exposed side.
Jamis let out a stifled moan, falling to his knees. Paul backed away, panting.
A heavy silence fell over the canyon. No one applauded. No one cheered. Death was a daily occurrence for the Fremen, but it always deserved respect.
Stilgar approached and placed a hand on Paul's shoulder.
"You have fought well, Muad'Dib."
Paul looked down at Jamis's body. He didn't feel triumph. He felt the weight of another stone placed on the grave of his former identity.
Jessica approached as well, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her look wasn't reproachful. It was understanding.
The Fremen began the funeral rites. They would remove the water from Jamis's body, as was the custom, and that water would now belong to the sietch.
Paul stood there, motionless, while the ritual was performed. He knew he had crossed another threshold.
The noble boy of Caladan had died that night.
What remained was Muad'Dib, the desert fox.
When the ritual was over, Stilgar approached Paul.
"You have earned your place among us, young falcon. Welcome to the sietch!"
Paul nodded slowly.
And in his heart, he felt the echo of a new name, a new destiny, resonating across the eternal dunes of Arrakis.
Behind him, Jessica watched the horizon.
She knew that the desert forged prophets. And monsters too.
And that her son, Paul Atreides, was now both.