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

Saul sat enthroned, imperious, at the head of the table. There was no sound—no breath louder than his. He was the voice of this household, and no one could, should, or wished to oppose him. Simon and I kept our heads bowed, low enough to reveal our necks; our docility. Caiaphas, the youngest of our lineage, was seated to Simon's left. He was too young—barely six—to hold himself in any particular manner. We did not yet know to which caste he would belong, but he remained quiet under Simon's silent request.

At the opposite end of the table sat Abel, alone. He was silent as well, but whenever I dared glance his way, his chin was high, his eyes locked with those of our seeder. Ironically, Saul was the only one Abel ever allowed himself to meet the gaze of. There was no fear, no apprehension, no respect in that act, and yet he defied every danger of our Society by doing so. I struggled endlessly to understand him. He had already endured so many trials, so much pain. Why did he continue?

The two measured each other, and though Saul always appeared harsh, he had, in a certain way, always been lenient toward Abel. It would have been an endless duel between them—one that never should have taken place between a seeder and a bearer. Abel should have been docile, lowered his head, apologized, and remained silent in his assigned place, far from us; a reminder of his sin. Yet Saul looked away first.

It was no admission of weakness, but an act of clemency. He took up his utensils and began his meal. From the height of his familial throne, by that simple gesture, he silently showed us why he was our seeder. He protected us, even when one of us failed gravely. There were only the people of our small household here. We shared the same blood—what those-we-no-longer-mentioned used to call "family."

Saul allowed Abel freedoms, but I knew he would only ever tolerate such defiance from him. A small part of me, deeply jealous, wondered if Saul too had been bewitched by the beauty of his eldest fruit. For he seemed to let him get away with many things.

Abel had joined us, dressed in white. His robe stopped at his ankles, revealing the violet marks on his bare feet—feet that seemed to have never touched the soil. The fabric, heavy and textured, shimmered softly under the warm lights of the household, as though a thousand ivory scales had been sewn into it. At his sides, the material opened, revealing the deep wound where the spear had pierced him, when his belly had been judged for his actions.

He wore nothing on his hands, as tradition demanded. And his back...

God, his back. My brother was covered in marks, and where any of us would have borne them with suffocating shame, Abel cared nothing for them. This garment Saul had made for him—like all the ones that followed—was meant to remind him of how disgraceful his act had been; how vile. But not for him. Again, I could not understand it, but I admired him, for I envied his fierce courage.

For his robe, I had seen when his steps brought him to the table, opened widely behind him, as though wings were ready to unfurl. The fabric fell nobly over his hips, while his ribs were tightened by a low corset, revealing all the bare skin from his shoulder blades to his lower back. Silver chains draped over him, attached at his collar, his shoulders, his waist. They cascaded down, weaving between his scars. They were not there to hide them, but to emphasize them, to draw the eye to them.

The marks covered his back as the laws covered The Codex of Virtues: with harshness and equity. Some lines were thin, almost elegant; others deeper, cruel, tortured—but all of them symbols of a crime that cast shame on the household. And yet... I could not understand... how could he still be so beautiful? His pale hair flowed gently down his back, mingling with the chains. The skin of his nape was smooth, taut, yet never offered to Saul. Even his profile, as he walked, carried the nobility reserved for the highest bearers, for certain seeders, or—worse—for Patriarchs.

His beauty was, at times, no longer human. It hurt. It hurt me. It gnawed at me. It consumed me. It burned with a fire I could not comprehend.

I had always known that Abel was inexplicably loved by the heavens, despite his sin and all the ones he continued to commit. He bore the beauty of martyrs found in old stories.

And I—me—I tried to rival him, to catch the eye of our seeder, for I too wished to feel a fragment of the admiration Abel inspired in everyone who crossed his path. My body was still untouched; my skin pale as milk. Yet no one had ever looked at me the way they looked at my elder brother.

He no longer appeared in Society, not as often as before, but I knew that if he had, I would have remained nothing more than "Abel's brother." Today, through his sin... God forgive me... I had a chance to exist. Fully.

Simon ate after Saul—always after—and we followed. I did as well once I managed to tear my gaze away from my brother. Before us were countless pale fruits, fresh juices of the sweetest flavors. I was starving, and just as happy, and I convinced myself, as best I could, not to let my brother and his behavior darken this day that was mine. I waited patiently for our seeder to finish eating, his mood noticeably dimmed.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin in a noble gesture. His jet-black hair, tied in a long low ponytail resting on his shoulder, was gently brushed back as his gaze finally returned to me once more. He too had regained his composure, ignoring Abel's ghostlike presence as he ate in utter silence—so quiet that one could forget he was even there unless one looked at him.

"Enoch, on this day of your eighteenth birthday, you celebrate your Age of Consecration. You know that we, as men, are born three times."

With a look, he invited me to complete the ritual phrase.

"From the one we no longer mention, from the bearers, and finally..."

"From duty," we finished together.

He nodded with pride.

"And my duty, Saul, is to receive the seed of the one you and our Patriarch Domiel will have chosen. I can hardly wait to discover who it will be."

Simon offered me a gentle smile.

"You know that every union of flesh meant to implant the seed must be the subject of a formal request addressed to the Patriarch of lineage; the Patriarch of the entrusted bearer."

I nodded quietly. Again, Saul's voice carried the warmest of emotions. I felt as though I could take flight, sitting so straight on my chair, ready to spring forward the moment he announced who I would be assigned to.

"Less than a month ago, Patriarch Domiel received a request for you. As the Patriarch of your lineage, he alone holds supreme discernment, and he has decided to grant your union—according to the genetic, moral, and doctrinal needs of our Society—with one of the most illustrious members it holds."

I saw Simon discreetly turn his head toward Abel, and I dared not do the same. I could imagine all too well his expression, his state, and what must have been coursing through his mind. I refused to let anything steal this moment from me, so I clung to the black eyes of my seeder, of Saul, whom I would see only a handful more times. I clung to him because he mattered; because this situation, this announcement, mattered far more than my elder brother's unfounded fears.

"Enoch, born of the lineage of Domiel, son of Simon Domiel and Saul Raguel, your Patriarch grants your union as bearer with Father Seriel, one of the Fathers of the Society, the Patriarch of the Seriel lineage."

Suddenly, joy twisted violently in my gut. With my palms flat on the table, I rose in a single motion, standing tall on my two legs, while my smile devoured my cheeks until it ached uncontrollably. I wanted to leap higher still, to scream my joy and euphoria. God, thank you—oh God, thank you! I had never dreamed so high. I had never asked for so much, and yet God granted me the immense honor of carrying the child of a Patriarch. I would never—oh, never—have dared hope for such greatness. Those who could were rare, honored beyond measure, and now I was among them!

"Enoch, do not raise your voice. Do not forget to hold yourself properly, despite your joy."

Saul reminded me sternly, and I obediently sank back into my chair. I bowed my head, revealing my neck to him, though my smile refused to disappear—especially when his fingers slipped beneath my veil to graze it.

"Patriarch Seriel will arrive tomorrow to meet you."

Suddenly, a sharp noise shattered our conversation. I turned toward the source—and found exactly what I had feared. Abel had violently dropped his utensils, and I saw his palms, clenched so hard in emotion that the shape of the fork and knife had pressed deep into his stigmatized hands. My heart clenched with pain; I tried to look away, but Abel's gaze caught mine before I could escape. Silent tears, stubborn tears, flooded his beautiful iridescent eyes. I swallowed, speechless and frozen.

"Your brother, at least, knows how to rejoice in good things. It is long past time you cease your rebellions and disgraces, Abel. Tomorrow, and every day after, I expect from you the most exemplary behavior."

Abel answered only with a look of defiance, his tears drying, anger replacing grief.

"You will lower your gaze, for there is nothing good within you nor upon you. You will remain silent, for the one who bears life does so in silence and does not command."

Saul was reciting The Codex of Virtues to him. I shivered, for his voice was cold, his gaze unyielding, and this was no longer leniency—this was a true warning to my elder brother.

"I want neither impetuous looks nor insolent behavior toward Patriarch Seriel, for he who doubts the Patriarch doubts the very origin."

Abel remained silent, and I wondered what could possibly be passing through his mind. The two had been locked in a cold war for years. It was the first time I had ever seen them truly fight face-to-face.

"You will accept and fulfill your role as bearer: you will be docile, sensitive, gentle, attentive, and receptive. For..."

"For he who questions the role he is given questions God entirely."

Abel had answered him.

His voice—we didn't hear it often. He barely used it at all. It was rough, like an echo bouncing off stone, yet there was a certain insolence in it, mingled with a hidden softness that resonated.

"Glad to see you haven't entirely forgotten my teachings. If you are still able to recite The Codex of Virtues, then you are able to understand this: you have cast shame upon this household. Patriarch Seriel shows infinite kindness by turning his gaze toward this home."

Saul spoke the truth.

After Abel's sin, we had been pushed aside and nearly forgotten. For years, we had expected that the seeder appointed to me would come from a more modest lineage, but everything had been overturned thanks to Patriarch Seriel. His request—for me—covered our home in honor once again, giving even Caiaphas a chance at a better future. Patriarch Seriel was good, without question, and I rejoiced in it.

"This is no longer about you, but about Enoch's future, Caiaphas's future, and the future of those who may one day be born."

"You know what some seeders are capable of. You knew it when you threw me to the devils. What do you even know of this Patriarch, Saul? Have you ever met him? Or do you only see prestige to reclaim? What will happen if Enoch—"

"He who doubts the Patriarch doubts the very origin," I cut in.

I was furious. Why did he have to do this?

"The tenth virtue says: the child is an oath. You may not have understood that, Abel, but I have. I want to live and serve God. I want to be a bearer, to receive the seed of Patriarch Seriel. I want to be gentle, docile, sensitive, and attentive to others. I want to carry children."

I barely held back my tears. I truly wanted all this, and the thought that Abel might take it away from me terrified me.

"Stop projecting your fears onto me. You try to frighten me with the world while I see in it the greatest beauty. God loves me. God has paved a path for me; for you; for bearers; for seeders; for concordists; for orators; for Patriarchs. We all follow this path."

My throat tightened with sorrow. This day was so beautiful—why did I have to feel so much pain?

"We all follow it, so why not you? You committed an irreparable sin. You sin without end by slandering the seeders, our protectors, and the Fathers of our Society. You go too far. I..."

I clenched my fists.

"I hope that tomorrow you will be more willing to fulfill your duty, as I always have."

I lifted my gaze toward Saul. I must have interrupted him. He should have been the one to respond, the one to handle this problem—and I was ready to face the consequences. But instead, his eyes softened on me.

"Saul... may I return to my room?"

Under normal circumstances, I would never have been allowed to leave the table before him.

"Rest, Enoch. Tomorrow, you must be more radiant than on any other day. You will be perfect—I know it."

I no longer dared look at my elder brother. I didn't dare face him again. Where had I even found the courage? I thanked Saul with a pitiful smile and rose, keeping my back firmly turned to Abel. Behind me, as I left the great hall, I heard Saul's final words before he stood as well. His voice carried great eloquence, laced with a chilling warning:

"The child is a living oath—an oath you have broken. You are nothing but a bearer fallen into disgrace. Stay in your place. This is the last time I tell you, Abel. If there must be a next time, I will make a formal request to have a seeder assigned to you rather than let you serve this household."