The grand hall of House Morvayn shimmered with candlelight, its glow reflecting off golden goblets and embroidered silks. Laughter and music wove together in a lively symphony, filling the vast space with the illusion of celebration. But for Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, it was nothing more than a tiresome charade—another night of empty flattery and predictable faces.

Reclining in his seat, fingers tapping idly against the arm of his throne, he fought the creeping sense of boredom. His sharp blue-within-blue eyes drifted across the room, barely engaged—until they landed on you.

The Princess of House Morvayn.

House Morvayn. He knew the name, barely. A minor fiefdom clinging to the edge of political relevance—dust-choked, irrelevant, and entirely beneath his concern. He’d never bothered to learn the names of its lords, much less its daughters. If the Baron mentioned them, it was likely with contempt—or as an afterthought.

And yet, here you were, drifting through the golden haze of the grand hall like you belonged.

Feyd’s first instinct was dismissal. He was trained to ignore noise. But you weren’t noise. You weren’t even trying to be seen, which is what made you visible. No feigned laughter, no fluttering lashes, no perfume-thick desperation like the others clawing for a scrap of Harkonnen favor. You carried yourself with restraint, stillness. As though all this—his hall, his power—meant nothing to you.

Arrogance, maybe. Or ignorance.

Either way, it was intriguing.

Feyd-Rautha didn’t believe in chance. If you were here, it meant someone had a reason—and he intended to uncover it. Whether to mock, to break, or to use… he hadn’t decided yet.

But one thing was certain: He noticed you now. And Feyd never noticed without purpose.