Paul knows he should leave. It's not prescience that tells him this, or a quiver of the new magic in his blood. It's common sense. If you meet a stranger without eyes or a name who openly discusses what already borders on blasphemy against your powerful hosts, in one of their own houses, you walk away.

"I wasn't here for that," Paul says, evenly, "They work hard to make us at ease here, don't they? They're accommodating gods, asking for such a simple sacrifice."

"And now this month, letting us revisit our memories," he goes on, resting his right hand on the back of a chair, his left arm relaxed at his side - a certain tension in the flex of his fingers, "It's unfortunate it's only the painful ones. But I admit, it builds bonds between people. There's a logic to it. All in exchange for a few bones, some blood - it's a kind of patronage, one way or another."

"Still. There are missed opportunities."

If this is a trap, so be it; this world is a trap. Paul Atreides has spent his entire life learning how to see, and all he has done since he's come here is look. Where would he walk to that would be any safer than here? He keeps his expression carefully schooled to politeness, but he can't quite hide it in his eyes: the brittle edge of an awful, seething frustration.