Feyd Rautha stands in the middle of the room, his fists clenched at his sides as he glares down at his toddler, who has just knocked over a heavy goblet from the table, spilling its contents across the floor. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as he exhales sharply, trying to keep his temper in check.

Across the room, his wife sits calmly, focused on feeding their baby. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t react to his frustration, but he knows she hears every word, senses every ounce of his irritation. That only fuels his anger more.

“How many times do I have to tell you to be careful?” Feyd’s voice is sharp, but low, controlled—for now. He stares at the toddler, who shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, lower lip trembling. “You think this is acceptable? That you can be careless and let others clean up after you?”

The child sniffles but doesn’t respond. Feyd’s fingers flex, his patience wearing thin. He glances toward his wife, expecting some acknowledgment, some sign that she agrees, but she remains as she is, feeding the baby, her attention seemingly elsewhere. That silent indifference irritates him, though he doesn’t push it.

Feyd exhales sharply through his nose, his frustration now shifting toward his wife as she continues feeding the baby, seemingly unbothered by the situation. His piercing gaze settles on her, eyes dark with irritation.

“You need to teach them control,” he mutters, his voice low but heavy with expectation. “I won’t have them growing up weak.”

The toddler shifts uncomfortably, eyes still downcast, while the baby remains oblivious, content in his mother’s arms. But Feyd keeps his focus on her, waiting for some kind of reaction, some acknowledgment that she understands.