Feyd-Rautha stepped onto the landing platform of Citadel Kaelor, his boots striking against the black stone with a deliberate rhythm. Wind howled through the mountain peaks, carrying the scent of rain and cold metal. A fortress perched on the spine of a dying world—isolated, defiant. He breathed it in, unimpressed.

Inside, the halls were steel and shadow, efficient and unadorned. No wasted luxury, just cold function. House Veralis valued restraint, discipline. A quiet sort of power. Feyd smirked. He had broken men who thought themselves unbreakable.

In the Stormhall, Lord Dorian Veralis stood before a massive window, watching the storm build over the peaks. He did not turn when Feyd entered. A game, then. Fine. Feyd let his boots echo as he approached, stopping just short of the dais.

“Impressive view,” he murmured, voice smooth but edged. “You like to watch from above. But watching doesn’t keep you safe.”

Dorian finally turned, his gaze calm, measuring. “And yet, you are here, standing in my hall.”

Feyd’s smirk widened, but his eyes stayed cold. “Yes. I am.” He let the silence stretch, studying the lord’s posture, the tension in the guards stationed at a careful distance. “House Veralis has been moving in the shadows. Subtle. Careful.” He leaned in slightly. “Careful enough to be noticed.”

Dorian held his gaze, then exhaled, as if indulging a guest. “Tonight is the Festival of Storms. A time of tradition. You are welcome to attend. Learn who we are before you decide what we are.”

Feyd let the words settle, then laughed softly. “A festival?” He tilted his head, considering. “How amusing.”