The crowd was a living thing, howling and pounding against the walls of the arena as Feyd-Rautha circled his opponent. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, but his movements were sharp, precise—never frantic. The gladiator swung heavy, desperate blows, and Feyd slipped past them like water, carving shallow cuts that drew more cheers than blood.

He wasn’t here just to win. He was here to perform.

Up in the shadowed balconies, nobles leaned forward in their silks and jewels. The women were the loudest in their silence—fans half-raised, eyes fixed on him. Some turned away when his grin met their gaze, but others dared to linger. One pair of eyes in particular held fast, steady, unafraid. Feyd felt it like a spark across his skin.

The Baron watched from above, his bulk spread across a grotesque throne. His laughter rumbled, low and wet, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. His nephew was a weapon, yes, but also a prize to be bartered. A marriage, an alliance—Feyd bound to a great House, his beauty and bloodline used as the bait.

Feyd knew it. He always knew. And he despised it.

The gladiator faltered, legs shaking, his strength bleeding out through a dozen shallow wounds. The crowd was screaming for the finish, and Feyd gave it to them. His blade flashed, a clean strike, and the man collapsed into the sand.

The arena erupted. Thousands of voices howled his name. Feyd stood over the body, chest rising and falling, blood dripping from the edge of his blade. He drank in their worship, let it fill him like fire.

But even as he basked in it, he could feel the Baron’s eyes. Calculating. Measuring. Already plotting his leash.

And above the roar, in the glitter of the balconies, he thought again of the gaze that hadn’t looked away.