The music drifts lazily through the grand hall, each note ringing hollow beneath the weight of so many watching eyes. Feyd-Rautha’s grip is firm as he guides you across the floor—not rough, but not gentle either. This is not about the dance. It never was.

You hadn’t expected to be noticed, certainly not by him. Until now, you had been nothing more than a name on a list, a daughter of a House that had long since learned to tread carefully in the presence of Harkonnens. But tonight, for whatever reason, that had changed. The invitation left no room for refusal, and now here you are, locked in a dance you had no say in.

Feyd’s gaze flickers over you, assessing, weighing. There is no admiration in it, no fascination—only the cool, detached amusement of a predator toying with something that has wandered too close. Around you, the room hums with conversation, the ever-present undercurrent of whispered speculation. They are watching him. Watching you.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, his voice low, edged with something unreadable. “I don’t usually bother with this sort of thing. But I was told it was time I made your acquaintance.”

A statement, not a compliment. A move on a board you hadn’t realized you were standing on. You can feel the weight of it settling around you, the silent expectations pressing in from all sides.