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

That day, I was awake before dawn had even shown itself. Moonlight still glimmered in the night vault, and the stars shone tirelessly to their heart’s content. I felt neither exhaustion nor drowsiness upon waking. I felt only pure bliss and a barely contained eagerness. The great day had come, and while my mind was already prepared, my body still needed to be perfect for the occasion.

For that, rising early was a necessity.

In the Domiel bloodline, to which I belonged, we had our ritual. Every lineage had its own, though all served roughly the same purpose: the purification of body and blood. In this home, one would bathe in a vast basin carved from moonstone—the very stone said to have captured the breath of God. It was filled with icy water, the purest one could find, and blessed by an orator, the priests of our Society.

My night-robe slid from my shoulders and fell onto the tiles in a solemn silence. I stepped into the basin, already filled and blessed, and immersed myself entirely. In the icy water, moonstones had been scattered. The holy water was meant to cleanse me of my sins, and the moonstones to purify my blood—the blood of the Domiel lineage.

The cold bit into me like a starving beast, but I loved it. I knew what it meant.

Soon—only a few hours from now—I would experience the greatest encounter of my life.

It was an honor to take this purification bath, to rest for the next three hours in this vast carved and polished moonstone. This basin had been gifted to our home by Patriarch Domiel himself. Elie, the eldest of our brotherhood, had been the first to bathe in it. Abel had followed a year later, and now it was my turn, just as Caiaphas’s would one day come.

There were no perfumes, no herbs, no plants, no flowers to scent the water—only the most primal simplicity. Beneath and around me, the moonstones clicked softly against one another, releasing waves through the water; waves I admired as wonders of this world.

Even though I was freezing to the point my bones ached, I already felt prepared to stay three hours, as the ritual demanded: one hour for each of the three days God had spent in the tomb.

I rested my head against the edge of the immense “bath.” I let time drift past until even it faded, leaving only the moon, which shone through the stained glass window and cast a silvery, almost supernatural glow over the water.

Its reflections shifted—not with the still water under my calm stillness, but because warmer, livelier rays were replacing them.

The sun was rising over me.

When Simon came to fetch me for what came next, the daystar had already warmed my pale skin and the icy water. Simon was calm. He had already done this for two of his children. His movements were precise, tender, and wonderfully gentle. The towel he used to dry me was soft—gliding over my sensitive skin like a breath. Together, we recited the prayer. It was the prayer all bearers of all bloodlines were required to offer before preparing to meet their seeders, or their Patriarchs.

Listen, my God, you who gave birth to the bloodlines,
Here stands your son, born of Domiel blood, presenting himself before You,
Without silver, without veil, without voice but that of duty.

In the water of Your blessing, my God,
Your son remained three hours to honor Your three days in the tomb.
The pure waters have washed his sins, and Your breath his blood.

All old faults, all old stains,
All are cast out with the first light of the daystar,
For Your son, my God, is born anew for You.

Keep him far from evil, serpent, and beasts,
Strengthen his steps, sanctify his voice, guide his faith, my God,
And let him be born for the third time through his duty.

From this water let him emerge as the child shall emerge from his womb,
Purer than the first light of dawn,
Purer than the water You have chosen, my God.

When we finished, Simon took a small bottle delicately carved from glass into the shape of a flower. It contained a perfume—the most concentrated of all. Each bloodline had inherited a flower to represent it, and it was customary to wear its scent. The Patriarchs themselves always wore the flower of their lineage on the breast of their garments, above their heart.

A few symbolic drops were enough: two behind each ear for the listening and receptiveness of bearers; one over the heart, seat of the bearers’ love; one on the forehead, refuge of conscience and duty; two on the wrists, to sanctify blood and hands; and two more on the soles of bare feet, for the path walked so far and humility. At my feet, Simon placed the final drops.

The fragrance of the Domiel lineage came from a flower called the angelica. It was a lily with ten petals, said to mirror the Ten Virtues of the The Codex of Virtues, blooming wherever angels had once placed their bare feet.

The scent of angelica was discreet and silky. I was happy to wear it today, and I prayed that its gentle fragrance would charm Patriarch Seriel and draw him to me. I wanted—more than anything—to do well today.

Finally, Simon helped me slip into a simple toga—the preparatory garment worn before putting on my robe. Seated before my vanity, I admired Simon’s work in silence. Everything had to be done without a word. He dried my hair with patience, untangling every strand to tend to each curl. He styled me, lifting a few locks back, and fastened the veil onto my head with tiny white pins hidden within my pale mass of hair.

The veil worn by bearers was powerful. Any one of us felt more ourselves with it than without it. It symbolized purity, devotion, and humility. It fell from my head like the first celestial mists descending from divine heights, or like the cloud-falls one sometimes found at the home of our Patriarch Domiel. Its whiteness was worthy of the light at God’s feet. In our minds, it was a piece of cloth once worn by God Himself.

My cheeks were rosier today than on the days before—joy showed so clearly on my face. Simon, moved, remained for long seconds gazing at my reflection, his eyes brimming with tears. Then he dressed me. A white robe, made of tulle as light as an angel’s feathers, simple and yet so breathtakingly beautiful. He tied a necklace around my neck, a pendant holding a raw moonstone. Then nothing more: no jewelry, no sandals. I was to remain humble.

Simon observed me, and his hands folded gently around mine. We looked at each other, knowing this was one of our last moments together. Eighteen years. I had lived with him for eighteen years, and it still didn’t feel like enough because of how deeply I loved him. Yet I knew it was time for me to leave this home and build my own, just as Simon had done one day. One day, I too would see those I brought into the world be born of their duty, and I knew I would feel just as much pride as Simon felt now, looking at me.

Emotion tightened my throat; I wanted to cry, but I was fully prepared—I couldn’t let myself. Simon held back his own tears as well and pulled me delicately into his arms so as not to undo all we had done to make me so lovely. I closed my eyes during that embrace. It was warm, filled with a love one knew only once in a lifetime, and I was so grateful to know it. I loved Simon with all my heart.

When we finally stepped out of each other’s arms, our gazes—so similar—held the same love. I thanked him silently for these beautiful years.

Then he stepped back. His hands slipped away, his fingers brushing mine until only our fingertips touched, and then, finally, no contact at all. He stepped back further and found himself near the door. One hand on the handle, he prepared to leave me. To him, it wasn’t just a door. It was the moment he found the courage to let me go. But it was Simon, so of course he found that courage.

He turned the handle; the door opened; he gave me one last smile and left the room. When the door closed behind him and he disappeared, I knew that the moment had come. I stepped forward and, with emotion, before leaving the room, let my gaze travel across it one last time. Eighteen years, and it had never truly changed. It wasn’t very large, but I remembered how immense it had seemed when I was small. It was simple, comforting, and it was thanks to it—thanks to Simon and Saul, thanks to this home—that I knew happiness lived in the simplest of things.

Soon, I would no longer see it either.

I made my way into the hallway, ready to begin my walk down to the ground floor, to the living room where I would patiently wait for Patriarch Seriel. As I walked, I felt again that the hallways were narrow—too small—and I understood with a smile that it was me; that I now needed to build my own home, so much so that the one I had grown up in no longer fit me. But I loved its walls. I loved this place.

I let my hand glide along them, as I had the day before, until my fingers reached Abel’s door. It was open, surprisingly, and I found my elder brother sitting on the floor with Caiaphas facing him. My brothers were laughing while Abel read The Codex of Virtues to Caiaphas. I had missed whatever caused their hilarity, but the sight made me smile, for their happiness was contagious. I hadn’t spoken to Abel since yesterday—since our argument—and I regretted it, but I had been afraid.

It was rare to see such a radiant smile on my older brother’s face. I had missed it too, but now he offered it only to Caiaphas. I often caught him taking on Simon and Saul’s role toward Caiaphas, but I had never had the heart to tell on him. Deep down, I knew my brother saw in our youngest sibling his own child. He projected himself onto him. And it was as sad as it was beautiful to see. How could I ever bring myself to expose him?

He had looked at Caiaphas the same way Simon had looked at me only minutes earlier.

I regretted speaking to him with such cruelty yesterday. It wasn’t like me. I was a bearer: “gentleness, sensitivity, docility.” Yesterday, I had failed in that. Yet I often forgot that the same was true for Abel. He was a bearer too, even when he showed the courage of a concordist, the assurance of a seeder, or the discipline of an orator. Abel remained sensitive and soft, and that was why—because he was a bearer—he had suffered so much these past eight years.

And I always wondered then: if he knew himself so deeply anchored in his nature, in his duty, why had he attempted to take the life of his beloved fruit?