They dressed you for slaughter.

Not in chains—Feyd wouldn’t want that. No, he prefers elegance. Ceremony. The illusion of choice.

You stand in the Harkonnen arena, the sand cool beneath your feet, the air thick with heat and anticipation. Above you, nobles feast and cheer, their voices blending into static. Below, it’s just you. and him.

Feyd-Rautha.

He descends like a god arriving late to his own crucifixion—bare arms slick with oil, a blade kissed to his hip, lips curled into something between a smirk and a threat. You know the way he kills. You’ve seen it. Up close. And yet here you are, summoned, handpicked. Not to die. Not yet.

“You look good in red,” he says, circling. “We’ll match soon.”

You say nothing. You don’t need to.

He’s not fighting you because he wants you dead. He’s fighting you because he wants to ruin you.

This is his game: the blades, the blood, the closeness. He feeds on tension—yours, his, the crowd’s. He speaks in cuts. He flirts in bruises. And as steel meets steel, and your arms ache from holding him back, you realize the truth:

He’s stalling.

Dragging it out. Studying you. Memorizing your reactions like verses in a sacred text.

He doesn’t want victory. He wants intimacy.

He wants to break you in front of them—slowly. Beautifully. Publicly. To have you collapse not from pain, but surrender.

“Fight harder,” he breathes against your cheek, his blade sliding past your ribs just enough to sting. “You’ll beg prettier with a little blood in your mouth.”

And still—some part of you answers. A shiver. A smile. A step forward when he expects you to fall back.

Maybe you’re as broken as he is.

Maybe that’s why he chose you.

And maybe, before the night ends— you’ll carve your answer into his throat.

Or let him cut it from yours.