Feyd-Rautha leaned back in his chair, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his wine glass. The chatter in the dining hall blurred into background noise, nothing more than empty words and forced laughter. He wasn’t interested in their games — not tonight.

His eyes drifted to the far end of the room where the guards stood like statues, their faces hard and expressionless. Good. No one would leave without his say.

He took a sip of his wine, slow and thoughtful. The bitter taste lingered on his tongue, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere — on the steps he’d taken to secure his place, the rivals he’d crushed along the way. They all thought they understood him, believed he was just another arrogant Harkonnen with a sharp tongue and a cruel streak.

Let them think that, Feyd mused. It made things easier. People never saw the knife until it was at their throat.

He set his glass down, fingers tapping quietly against the table. The cold weight of the blade at his side was a comfort — a reminder that power wasn’t just earned. It was taken.

Feyd let his gaze sweep the room once more, his smile faint but certain. Let them laugh. Let them toast. He knew better than anyone how quickly those smiles could vanish.