Feyd-Rautha leaned back in his chair, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. The sharp scent of roasted meat and spice filled the air, but he barely noticed. His gaze flicked across the room, watching the flicker of candlelight dance along the walls. The laughter and conversation around him felt distant — just noise.

He took a slow sip of his wine. The bitterness clung to his tongue, but he welcomed it. It grounded him, gave him something to focus on. The room felt too warm, the air too heavy. He hated these dinners — the forced smiles, the endless posturing. Everyone pretending they weren’t just waiting for someone else to slip.

Feyd set his glass down a little harder than he meant to, the sharp clink cutting through the noise. A few heads turned, but no one met his eyes for long. They never did.

He smirked to himself and reached for the knife at his side, fingers resting lightly on the hilt. Just a habit — nothing more. The cool metal felt steady beneath his hand.