Ich wusste nicht, wie ich gestorben bin oder wann ich wiedergeboren wurde, aber das ist für die Geschichte hier egal. Meine Mutter war die jüngere Schwester von Vladimir und Abulurd Harkonnen. Sie war das Kind einer Nebenfrau und wurde in jungen Jahren als Verhandlungsmasse an das Haus Kio verheiratet, um deren Loyalität und Kontrolle zu sichern. Ich weiß, dass sie mich geliebt hat. Sie war nicht so grausam wie ihr Bruder, aber sie konnte energisch und fordernd sein, wenn sie etwas wollte. Ihr Ehemann und mein Vater war Herzog Tomas von Kio. Er war ein relativ schwacher Herrscher, der meistens meiner Mutter folgte. Ich erinnere mich kaum an ihn, er war meistens nicht da, und wenn er da war, war er nicht an mir interessiert, sondern nur an der Kurtisane oder den weiblichen Sklaven meiner Mutter. Ich war für ihn nur ein Erbe für die Blutlinie, mehr nicht. Meine Mutter brachte mir bei, wie man herrscht und Geschäfte abschließt. Mein Onkel hatte wenig Interesse an mir oder meiner Mutter gezeigt, was ein Glück für mich war, aber das wusste ich erst später in meinem Leben. So konnte ich relativ frei von dem Wahnsinn, der Paranoia und den Intrigen des Hauses Harkonnen aufwachsen. Sie brachte mir das komplexe Machtgeflecht des Imperiums bei, welchen Häusern man vertrauen kann, welche nur bedingt vertrauenswürdig sind und welche man nicht im Rücken haben will, um zu überleben. Sie erzählte mir auch über den Hass der Harkonnen auf das Haus Atreides und wie es dazu kam, dass die beiden sich als Todfeinde betrachten und sich bis aufs Blut hassen. Sie brachte mir auch über einige der Intrigen der großen Häuser bei, wie man sie für sich nutzen kann oder wie man sich daraus heraushält, wenn es einem gelingt. Sie gab mir noch einige Warnungen über die Bene Gesserit, dass man ihnen nicht vertrauen kann und dass sie eigene Pläne für die Menschheit haben. Jede gute Zeit endet leider auch. Meine Mutter und mein Vater starben am selben Tag an einer sehr obskuren Lebensmittelvergiftung. Der betreffende Koch und die Bediensteten wurden fast am selben Tag hingerichtet, bevor man sie überhaupt befragen konnte, wer sie damit beauftragt hatte, das Gift in das Essen zu tun. Die Person, die das Essen vorkosten sollte, damit es nicht vergiftet ist, verschwand am gleichen Tag. Mein Onkel Vladimir machte seine Aufwartung und bekundete seine Trauer über den Tod seiner Schwester Senta. Seine Trauer war teilweise geheuchelt, obwohl ich glaube, darunter befand sich wirklich

Chapter 1: Rebirth and Revelation: A Father's Desperate Grasp

Tomas Kio jolted awake, his chest heaving as if he’d been running. The silken sheets clung to his skin, damp with sweat, though the room was cold. He stared at the canopy above his bed, its embroidered gold threads glinting faintly in the moonlight. Not again. This dream—this memory—was sharper now, more insistent, like a wound refusing to heal.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its ornate hands frozen at 3:17 AM. The birthing chamber was just down the hall, but the weight of the dream pinned him to the bed. He should be there. Senta would be furious if he wasn’t. But the dream… it wasn’t just a dream. It was something else entirely.

He remembered a place that wasn’t Kio, a place of sterile white walls and humming machines. He wasn’t a duke there. He was… someone else. Someone who understood the stars, not as distant lights, but as places you could touch. The memory slipped through his fingers like smoke, but the feeling lingered—a longing for something he couldn’t name.

The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of antiseptic. Tomas swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to steady his breathing. The dream had left him with a strange clarity, as if he’d been given a glimpse of something forbidden.

Down the hall, a muffled scream pierced the silence. Senta. He should be there. He knew he should be there. But the thought of facing her, of seeing the disappointment in her eyes, made his stomach churn. He wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for any of it.

The dream came back in fragments—a shimmering star, a consciousness forming in the void. His daughter. He’d seen her there, in that strange place between memory and dream. But something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

He stumbled into the washroom, splashing cold water on his face. The mirror showed a man he barely recognized—pale, haunted, with dark circles under his eyes. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. Who was he in that other life? And why was he remembering it now, of all times?

The forbidden knowledge surged through him again, unbidden. Cybernetics. Surgery. Transplantation. Words he shouldn’t know, concepts that were outlawed centuries ago. But they were there, clear as day, etched into his mind like a blueprint. He could feel the cold steel in his hands, hear the hum of machinery, see the delicate dance of flesh and metal.

Another scream echoed down the hall, sharper this time. Tomas straightened, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of fear and determination. He had to go. He had to see her.

The birthing chamber was a blur of motion when he entered. Midwives moved like shadows, their faces grim. Senta lay on the bed, her dark hair plastered to her forehead, her face pale and drawn. She didn’t look at him when he stepped inside, her eyes closed as she gripped the sheets.

A midwife cradled a tiny bundle in her arms, her expression unreadable. Tomas approached slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. The infant was small, too small, her skin almost translucent. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her cheek. She was cold.

“A beautiful girl, your Grace,” the midwife said softly, her voice tinged with something Tomas couldn’t place. “But…”

He didn’t need her to finish. He could see it in the way the baby’s chest barely rose and fell, in the stillness of her tiny limbs. His daughter. His daughter. The forbidden knowledge roared in his mind, a desperate, insistent voice. He could save her. He had to save her.

The midwife’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. “She won’t live to see the morning.”

Tomas ignored the Hebamme’s words, his trembling fingers reaching for his daughter. She was impossibly small, her chest barely rising and falling, her skin cool to the touch. He cradled her fragile body against his chest, feeling the faint flutter of her heartbeat. Senta’s eyes fluttered open, and a single tear traced a path down her ashen cheek. "She's so small," she whispered, her voice breaking.

The forbidden knowledge surged through him like a storm, sharp and unrelenting. "Prepare the West Wing," he commanded, his voice cutting through the heavy air. The Hebamme hesitated, her eyes wide with disbelief, but Tomas’s glare silenced her. "Every physician, every apothecary, every chirurgeon—now." He turned on his heel, the child still cradled in his arms, and strode out of the room.

The West Wing was a ghost of its former self, its corridors lined with dust and cobwebs. Tomas barked orders, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Servants scrambled to clear the space, their faces pale with fear. He could almost see the sterile white walls from his dream, the hum of machines, the precision of steel. This place would have to do. It had to.

Physicians arrived in clusters, their faces etched with confusion. Tomas grabbed a piece of parchment and began to sketch, his hand moving with a precision that felt foreign yet familiar. Diagrams of cybernetic implants, neural interfaces, vascular regeneration—lines and symbols that shouldn’t exist in this world. The physicians exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs rising like a tide. "This is heresy," one muttered. "Madness," another whispered.

Senta appeared in the doorway, supported by her handmaidens, her face pale but determined. "Tomas, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice weak but laced with a desperate hope. He didn’t look up, his hand still moving across the parchment. "Saving her," he said simply, his voice steady despite the tremor in his heart.

The room fell silent as Tomas explained his vision, his words tumbling out in a torrent of technical jargon and fervent pleas. He spoke of replacing failing organs, augmenting her nervous system, giving her a chance—a future. The physicians shifted uncomfortably, their objections rising like a chorus. "This is against the laws of nature," one said. "It’s dangerous," another added. Tomas silenced them with a cold glare. "I am the Duke of Kio," he declared, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "And I will not stand idly by while my daughter dies."

Senta stepped forward, her hand resting on Tomas’s arm. "If there’s even a chance, Tomas," she said, her voice trembling, "we have to try." Her faith in him, her unwavering love, fueled his resolve. He nodded, his jaw set, and turned back to the physicians. "Begin," he ordered.

The first incision was made under the flickering light of oil lamps, the air thick with the scent of herbs and blood. Tomas guided the chirurgeon’s hand, his knowledge precise, his movements steady despite the tremor in his heart. The room was silent except for the sound of steel against flesh, the faint hum of the crude device Tomas had cobbled together from scraps and stolen parts.

Days blurred into nights as Tomas pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, overseeing every procedure, every adjustment, every infusion. He monitored her vital signs with a focus that bordered on obsession, refusing to leave her side. The whispers began to spread—madness, possession, a pact with dark forces. Tomas ignored them all, his eyes fixed on his daughter’s frail form.

There were moments of doubt, fleeting but sharp. Was he saving her, or condemning her to a life of unnatural existence? He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest, the faint flicker of life in her eyes. Senta remained his unwavering support, her presence a constant source of strength. She bathed his brow, fed him broth, and whispered words of encouragement, reminding him of the love that bound them together.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a faint flicker of life returned to his daughter’s eyes. Her breathing became stronger, her skin warmer. The impossible had happened. Tomas collapsed beside her bed, his body wracked with exhaustion, his heart overflowing with a mixture of relief and trepidation. He looked at his daughter, now more machine than human, and wondered if he had created a miracle or a monster.