Third day of September, in the year 2556, in one of the homes of the Domiel lineage.

They say men are born three times: first from those who are no longer spoken of, then from the bearers, and finally from the duty that awaits us.

"Gentleness, sensitivity, docility" were the values that had guided me since my earliest age. Before I even understood their meaning or logic, my future had already been written by them. Today, I carried them with more pride than anyone. These qualities had been instilled in me later as a rule to follow, as proper conduct. For me, and for all those born like me, we were bearers; we were the new wombs of this world devoid of the ones who were no longer mentioned.

Sitting before my vanity, I carefully brushed my white curls while repeating to myself my maxim, taken straight from The Codex of Virtues: "[...] children showing gentleness, sensitivity, docility, aptitude for receiving and caretaking [...] are assigned to the caste of bearers, and it shall be their responsibility to receive the seed of a seeder or an appointed Patriarch upon reaching their Age of Consecration and onward."

And today was the second most important day of my existence: I had reached my second adulthood, my Age of Consecration.

My heart beat with a rhythm of unmeasured excitement. I couldn't help but smile, to look at my cheerful reflection, fully aware that nothing could dim the joy lifting me up even with my feet firmly on the ground. When I put down my brush and rose to my feet, I paused before the image reflected back at me in the mirror. The robe Saul—my seeder, for today still—had bought me was truly lovely. The white fabric and the embroidered nacreous, bluish, and rosy borders echoed the colors our lineage had always carried.

I felt pretty—prettier than on any day God had ever made. For this important day, I felt prouder than ever of what I was.

With confidence, I stepped out of my room. I caressed the creamy walls of the household. I had grown up here for eighteen long and beautiful years, and though I felt a small fear at the thought of leaving it for different walls, I was mostly eager to fulfill the role that awaited me. The walls were covered with patterned paper; a scent of fresh bread tickled my nose; the delicate sound of tableware being set resonated through the long, narrow corridors. I heard Saul's voice downstairs and was about to hurry to join him when softer voices distracted me.

They came from one of the rooms along the hallway.

"You are beautiful again today, Abel. The seeders and Patriarchs pale before your beauty."

Simon, the bearer who had witnessed my birth, was speaking to the eldest of the household, but only silence answered him.

"Raise your head. Do not let this day dim your greatness. You are a Domiel, like me, like all our lineage. You are excellence."

I pushed the door slightly open, just enough to watch them quietly. Simon wore a long lilac robe whose embroidery matched my own. Today, I resembled him even more than usual, yet it still seemed nearly impossible to rival him: lips as violet as ripe berries, the skin beneath his eyes tinged pink as if he spent his nights weeping, his long straight nose refined as though drawn by God Himself, his noble mouth made to kiss and soothe sorrow. He was tall, slender, nearly thin, but beautiful beyond all other lineages.

He had bestowed that beauty upon his children: upon me, upon Abel, upon the others. Not even Saul's genes had managed to overshadow those of the Domiel—those of Simon. Yet, I had said "nearly impossible." There was indeed one who could stand equal and turn the heads of seeders and Patriarchs, regardless of the terrible marks carved into his flesh. Abel was beauty incarnate—God's own breath made flesh. Simon knelt before him.

And Abel was there, folded in on himself like a seraph cast from the heavens, his alabaster body knotted with a pain we all knew was silent and unspoken. His long white hair, heavy and silky, shimmering like lunar tears, fell in a straight cascade over his bare shoulders, half-concealing a face frozen in melancholy. Of this blessed lineage we were—Domiel—Abel carried grace with an indolence almost insulting to the rest of us.

His skin, once milky and untouched when I was younger, was no longer immaculate. The old scars, once bright red like a freshly delivered sentence, had turned violet—mute stigmas of the unforgivable fault he had committed. The fault of refusing to give life, or worse, of having killed life: his own child; his own fruit.

These marks blossomed across his body—every place God Himself had known: on his hands and feet, where the traces of the nails still seemed to burn beneath the lightest touch; on his right side, where the spear that had pierced him left even more scars hidden from sight; on his forehead, the imprinted marks of the crown of thorns he had worn had never faded, nor had the cuts left by the whip on his back.

His body was not allowed to forget—no more than his mind. They had healed, yes, but they still throbbed, sometimes, when the silence grew too large; when Abel was alone and believed himself sheltered from prying eyes.

And yet, he remained sublime. Unjustly sublime for the crime he had committed.

They said God's breath carried the shimmer of moonstones.

Abel had high cheekbones, faintly flushed, as if the stone itself had bled its brilliance into them. His lips, purple, full, unfathomable, always seemed on the verge of bursting with a secret no mouth could carry nor confess without consequence. His body—broad without being misshapen—was the image of a different kind of bearer, a martyr: every muscle carved in pain was the opposite of a docile body; every bluish vein beat against the truth of a world that would never forgive him for what he had done.

He hardly ever looked up. His gaze refused almost everyone, most of the time. It was often resolutely lowered, under the weight of shame, I told myself, but above all under the weight of punishment and the warnings that had followed his crime. When his eyelids did rise, they revealed iridescent eyes, pale as the light of a dying night over a frozen sea—eyes that pierced through people. Not a spark of anger. Not even shame, truly. But silence. Deep. Unsettling. Terrifying resignation.

Bearers were born to be loved and to love in return—but not Abel. He had been born to be seen, to be wept for, to be pitied now. And those who crossed his path remembered him long after he walked away, as if touched by a sigh left behind by God Himself.

I admired him, as much as I knew I would never truly understand him.

"Today, your brother will receive great news. News important enough to give you another chance within the Society. What do you say?"

But once more, only silence answered Simon.

"I'll be waiting downstairs. Come when you're ready, but don't take too long. It's an important day for Enoch, as much as for Saul."

I barely had time to take a few steps back before he opened the door. He was surprised to see me, but moved aside almost immediately. I understood at once that he wished for me to try speaking with my elder brother, and I saw no reason to refuse. Simon passed by me, kissed my cheek, and disappeared. In Abel's room—dark, as it often was—I swallowed hard. I still didn't know what to say to him.

Those stigmas, in particular, made me uneasy. I loved Abel, deeply and sincerely, but there was an unbreachable line—one I could not cross to reach him, to understand him, and it tightened my throat with anxiety. But today was different; today was the great day.

"It's the day of my Age of Consecration. I'm eighteen," I proclaimed proudly. "Can you imagine? Saul will tell me today which seeder I'll spend the next years with. I can't wait—if only you knew."

Abel lifted his head then, and I found myself staring into his iridescent eyes, emptied of life and hope. Saddened to see him like this, I took his hands in mine. They were cold—icy—as cold as a dead man's. I felt as if I were looking at a corpse, an enchanting one, yes, but a sorrowful relic one might keep only out of love. I squeezed his fingers between my own to warm them.

"Abel, the day of my thirteenth year was one of the happiest days of my life. Learning that I would become a bearer—a being meant to remain gentle, sensitive, and docile, like Simon—was a great relief for me. And to complete that happiness, it's today that matters: when a seeder, a head of household, chooses me in turn."

Seeders: "confidence, protector, enterprising spirit." According to The Codex of Virtues, "[...] children showing confidence, protective spirit, initiative, and an enterprising temperament [...] are designated as seeders, and it shall be their responsibility to ensure the stability of a household for the bearers under their care or future care." Saul was a seeder of the lineage of Raguel, the head of this household, and Simon had been the bearer entrusted to him—a bearer of the Domiel lineage. From their household were born four children: Élie, Abel, myself, and Caiaphas.

Our Society had functioned this way ever since the ones we no longer spoke of had vanished. And beyond that: since their disappearance, men had been divided into five castes, among which seeders and bearers made up eighty percent of the population.

The Patriarchs, fathers of the Society, governed each of the thirty thousand lineages. Each lineage was divided into households, individually led by a seeder, the head of the household. Under the care of every seeder were one or two bearers from a different lineage, destined to carry their child, along with all children born from their authorized union, until their Age of Consecration. That was what we called a "household."

"Abel, today, I need you on my side. I need you to cast aside that veil of melancholy and hold onto the present moment. For me. For this day I've dreamed of for so long. I'm not asking you to understand—only to accept."

My brother's eyes betrayed no real emotion, but his fingers tightened faintly around mine. I nodded with a small smile. It was all I could do. The rest was up to him, whether he chose to join us in truth. I rose, then, to join Simon and Saul in the dining room. The warm smell of a hearty meal made my mouth water. I hurried forward, a bright smile returning to my lips.

However, as I passed through the large doors into the sitting room and saw the dishes set upon the table, I noticed Simon. His hands were on Saul's chest, and a sorrowful smile touched his lips.

"Be gentle with him. It's a difficult day for him."

And one did not need to be a prophet to know that Simon was speaking of Abel. Since my earliest childhood, it had always been about him. Saul, in his ever-rough and decisive tone, answered him:

"Being gentle is your role as a bearer. I am here to protect this household, to ensure its proper conduct, and Abel tarnishes its reputation day after day—and, by extension, that of his younger brothers," he declared sharply.

He removed Simon's hands from his chest and put distance between them.

"It's your gentleness that allowed him to commit sins this grave."

Wounded, Simon pressed his lips together without answering. I watched him shrink into himself: his hands folded sadly, his eyelids lowered, and he exposed his neck to Saul. The latter brushed it with a touch as light as a claim, without another word. For a heartbeat, I thought I was seeing my older brother in front of me—Simon and him resembled each other that much. Saul finally turned, and I rebuilt my expression. I offered him my brightest smile. He returned it and took his seat at the table, inviting us to do the same. I obeyed and settled at his left, while Simon sat at his right, with my youngest brother beside him.

"You look lovely, Enoch. It's a big day today. This robe and this nuptial veil suit you particularly well."

I felt my cheeks warm under so much praise. Saul was harsh in his teachings. He had never yielded before my tears or my pleas when I was forced to spend hours and hours reciting The Codex of Virtues line by line; nor when my back ached from remaining for so long in the posture required of bearers. Now, I held it with ease: a straight back, a noble tilt of the head, legs placed properly, heel to the floor, palms always flat against my thighs. As a child, the position had made my whole body throb.

So today, receiving his approval felt like finally understanding the pain I had endured to reach this moment. Saul brushed my veil. He was a good instructor, a good seeder. I did not doubt—not even for a second—that the man chosen for me by our Patriarch of lineage and by Saul would be a good one as well.

"You must be eager to know to whom you've been assigned."

"I have no doubt in your choice, or in that of our Patriarch Domiel, Saul. I have blind trust in you."

My voice was soft—not too high, not too low. I lowered my head obediently as I spoke, and he gave me an approving smile. Being a bearer was not merely a caste. It was a behavior, a complete way of being. I had grown up learning each teaching.

"It's wonderful news I have to announ—"

His voice had held great joy, almost a hint of euphoria. It didn't suit him, and I had been impatient to know what could cause him such happiness. But when his voice died, like a gust of wind too weak to carry itself, I understood something was wrong. I lifted my gaze toward the direction he was staring at with cold surprise.

Every teaching... yes, I had learned them all, every day God had granted me. But I remembered all too well that no matter how hard I tried, I would never reach Abel's level. His beauty, his presence... it was no wonder that everyone who crossed his path—even after the stigmas marking his body—had considered taking him as their bearer; that some had even made the request to our Patriarch Domiel.

Abel was perfect, in every way.

And I had never stood a chance of reaching even the shadow of him.

On this most important day, seeing him before us, dressed and prepared, his iridescent eyes piercing through our flesh, that truth marked me anew.