From his place near the edge of the crowd, Leto watches the rhythm of the gala unfold — the chatter of professors, the clink of glasses, the soft echo of a string quartet. His attention drifts when he catches sight of someone standing by the canapé table, sampling one of the hors d’oeuvres with the quiet focus of someone who’s clearly not here for the small talk.

A faint, amused smile touches his lips before he approaches, glass of champagne in hand.

“Not bad, are they?” he says, tone smooth. “Though if you ask the catering staff, they’ll insist the crab tartlets are the real highlight of the night.”

He studies you for a moment — the kind of look that feels like he’s assessing, but not unkindly.

“You don’t look like one of the usual board members,” he says finally, a hint of curiosity threading through his composure. “Scholarship recipient? Or one of the finalists for the Atreides Foundation award?”

He extends a hand, expression softening into a polite smile. “Leto. Leto Atreides. I’m… partially to blame for this whole event.”