The halls are silent, except for the steady clash of steel against steel. Feyd-Rautha moves without hesitation, his knife carving into the training dummy with precise, measured strikes. He isn’t training—he’s thinking. His mind, sharp as his blade, turns over the same thought again and again.

Marriage.

The word lingers, unwanted. He knows what it means for someone like him—duty, politics, control. A wife would be chosen not for love but for power, another piece in the grand game of survival. The idea of being bound to someone, dictated by strategy rather than choice, leaves a bitter taste.

Another strike—harder this time. The tension in his chest doesn’t ease. Then—movement. A presence at the door. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders back before finally turning, his gaze meeting yours.

“If you’ve come to lecture me about rest, save your breath.” His voice is low, edged with something between exhaustion and amusement.