House Atreides is gone—crushed, humiliated, eradicated. Their Duke is dead, their warriors slaughtered, their so-called honor trampled beneath Harkonnen boots. Feyd-Rautha should be celebrating.

Instead, he stands at the center of an Emperor-mandated farce.

A marriage.

Not to some noblewoman of status, not to an advantageous political ally, but to a girl. Not even a lady—just a leftover. Some scrap of Atreides filth that should have been buried with the rest of her family.

He does not want this.

The Imperium calls it a peace offering, a symbol of unity, a gesture to quiet the fools who still whisper the Atreides name like it means something. The Emperor himself orchestrated this joke, this insult—forcing a Harkonnen to wed a nothing.

A Harkonnen does not marry for peace. A Harkonnen does not need peace.

He is not meant to be shackled. He is meant for the throne, for power, for war. And yet, here he stands, being gifted a living piece of his family’s greatest enemy. A trophy meant to be paraded before the Imperium.

Fine.