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

“Patriarch Seriel.”

The moment I stepped outside the dwelling, the concordists were already there. God alone knew how long they had been waiting—immobile, stoic, like the statues of the Patriarchs who had walked before us. I was almost amused to hear their voices greet me in perfect unison, as if all these men formed a single one—and in truth, they did.

The concordists, members of the third caste of our Society, fought and defended under one banner: that of The Concord, the army of the Society.

They formed a rigid line, perfect and unshakable. They were as solid as the vow they had spoken during their Ages of Consecration. Each had sworn to protect our brothers, all men, and the fruits yet to be born. But more than that, they had devoted their lives to defending our faith and, consequently, the voices that carried its virtues for five centuries now: the Patriarchs. I stood on the lands of the Domiel, yet I remained one of the fathers of the Society, despite my recent rise to power.

It was strange that after so many years coveting what my father, Seriel VII, had held, my turn had finally come. I had just passed my thirtieth spring, and for the past year only had I tasted this life which was, surprisingly, monotonous. I myself was the first surprised to grow weary of it, but before me stood steel dolls that never trembled.

Their silence weighed heavier than my duties themselves. I did not require them to be here already—barely did I breathe that they aligned in formation to respond to my mere presence.

I had taken only a few steps down the stairs of my temporary dwelling when their assault rifles rose against their metallic chests with a clang that echoed like church bells. And yet, they were simply steps. I showed neither haste nor anger, but I was Patriarch. One of my steps was nearly worth that of God Himself, and with such importance, it was forbidden for them to meet my gaze or breathe more loudly. Each of them possessed a discipline found only among concordists.

Behind me, my train slid across the stone with the same calm as my steps, yet the fabric suddenly felt heavy. For the gazes I did not meet—I felt them profoundly, like the weight of prayers I had not recited; like the weight of all those spoken for me. When I reached the final step, all of them were already kneeling, heads bowed and necks offered like those of bearers.

Their armor, made of white metal—neither dull nor gleaming, similar to the hue of bone—chimed softly with their movements. I could see the different emblems engraved on the left side of each chest plate, mirrors to the one I bore. They were concordists, I was Patriarch, but two things united us: our devotion to our beloved Society, and our lineages.

We all belonged to a lineage, and each lineage had a flower.

Upon their vows, the orators engraved the flower of their lineage into their armor and ceremonial uniforms. Thus, I could see where each of them came from, before they belonged to The Concord.

And yet, that was the only sign of their humanity, for their armor was as solid as diamond. Every piece was crafted and assembled to discipline the flesh, to hide it, to erase everything except duty. Their only gleam came from the sharp, angular ridges catching the light like the blades that sometimes carved a sentence.

They embodied righteousness and control, and in their hands, their pale assault rifles rested motionless against their chests—never trembling, never hesitating. Their fingers were always ready to seize their roles.

Despite their appearance—which, to my taste, lacked beauty—and despite my weariness, I had to admit there was a certain satisfaction in seeing them obey without an order; in catching the newer ones still attempting to decipher my features.

The Concord, the armed arm of the Patriarchs, was not there to impose themselves on the Society, on the other castes. They were there to remind our world that we had laws meant to heal us from those we no longer named; that the orators were the voices of the laws, and the concordists, their blades.

I walked between them, between the two lines of honor they formed to grant me a single path: the one leading to the car that would carry me toward my duty. It started its engine.

One of them opened the door for me, neck offered, and I entered without a word or glance. What I was about to do today, I did for my duty, for those who came before me and had fulfilled theirs. For, though I could be blamed for it, I cared little for having offspring of my own blood. The idea of burdening myself for years with wailing children felt far more displeasing than pleasant. But my duty mattered more than my desire.

Among all the candidates proposed and examined, my interest had turned toward the lineage of the Domiel. It had been the most enticing in many ways. Praise for Domiel offspring was endless, and in less than five centuries, every lineage had vied for them. Physical peculiarities between lineages were not rare, but the most beautiful bearers were found among them. Their silky white hair, their pale eyes shimmering with a melancholic wisdom, their diaphanous skin, as pale as milk…

There was something sacred about them, something angelic; a purity so divine that no one seemed truly worthy of it.

Yet a Domiel household had suffered a tragedy. A second son had committed the unforgivable: he had broken his fruit before the harvest.

I had never heard of such a thing, least of all among the Domiel, and yet one of them had done it. He had been marked with the stigmata he deserved, and I wondered how one could stray so far from his duty. We were born three times: from those births we no longer spoke of, from the bearers, and from duty. Had he failed his third birth? The bearer had been returned to his original household, and another bearer had been assigned to the seeder who had suffered the affront. Amid that monotonous ennui, it was this household that drew me in.

Domiel had said that the third son, Enoch, was deeply docile—nothing like the behavior of his brother. The Patriarch of that lineage had sensed my interest in this household, and I had allowed it. It was his duty to restore the honor of those under his protection, and this boy was innocent of his elder brother’s crimes. Their first son, moreover, was among the most respected orators. So I granted Enoch a chance, and for my own sake—to ease my boredom—I chose this household. Was he ashamed of that second son?

I wavered alone for more than thirty minutes before the car finally stopped. When the door opened, it revealed to me a house worthy of the Domiel.

The building rose in a cradle of greenery where immaculate white flowers bloomed in meticulously kept beds. It did not bear the sharp angles or severe contours of my own estates—no. Here, the imprint of the Domiel was unmistakable: every curve, every cornice, every dormer held an incredible softness, like a dollhouse painted in tender hues; as if hands of infinite patience, marked by unshakable faith, had shaped it to safeguard the purest of souls.

I stepped out of the car, truly taken aback by what I saw. I felt outside of time, as if here we were apart from the world. Beneath my feet, the stone path was untouched by dirt, moss, or even the hint of a weed. My gaze wandered across the pale stone of the high walls, shimmering with pearly reflections in the morning light. The bluish slate roof, elegantly sloped in gentle curves, radiated a serene and welcoming glow—almost devout.

The windows were tall, almost too numerous, piercing the façade with a regularity that suddenly evoked a prison. And yet… beneath that archaic severity, I sensed a tenderness. The open shutters allowed glimpses of life within. The garden, dense with flowering bushes and murmuring with summer roses, smelled of fresh water, clean linen, and a cherished home. And I understood, in that moment, how the first son had become a skilled orator, and how Enoch and the youngest were destined for great things as well. This was why Domiel had made such an effort to convince me.

And yet, a mystery remained. What of the second son?

With slow steps, I approached the door, followed by the two concordists who had escorted me. I was unsettled. I had expected many things, but not this small haven steeped in tenderness.

When I rang, I did not know what to expect—but I was eager to discover it. I was greeted by the seeder of this house: Saul, of the Raguel lineage. He bore the simplicity of his lineage and that touch of nobility so often found among them, like a fallen lord who had never lost his honor, even in disgrace. At his side, a lilac silhouette appeared. I had seen too few Domiel—aside from Domiel himself—and Simon was only the third I had ever truly seen.

It was said that God’s breath had been captured in moonstones by angels themselves, and that these angels bent over the cradles of Domiel offspring to release countless divine breaths upon them. I understood now, as I admired Simon. His violet lips, like ripe fruit, the faint rosy tint beneath his eyes that heightened the pallor of his lavender gaze, his long white hair in thick, pure waves, his perfectly sculpted doll-like face. He was the most beautiful bearer I had ever seen.

If his offspring inherited even a fraction of his traits, then I had nothing to fear.

"Patriarch Seriel, there is no greater honor than welcoming a father into our home," Saul greeted me.

Simon, standing a step behind Saul, smiled and bowed his body, his neck, until I could see it. His thick hair hid it, but he was so beautiful, and his gesture so graceful, that I found myself wishing every bearer possessed hair like his. It would have been far more pleasant to discover their napes through such strands.

"Please, come in. You are home here."

I glanced behind me, and without a word, the concordists turned in perfect unison. They raised their pale rifles against their chests and fixed their gaze on the horizon, statues before the door. They would not move—I knew this—as long as I remained here. As for me, I stepped into the lovely home. Saul and Simon guided me toward the sitting room.

The Domiel household’s sitting room smelled of angelica blossom and lavender. Pale light filtered through immaculate curtains, drawing luminous dances across the antique-woven rug in rhythm with the soft breeze drifting in. Simon sat upright, magnificent in his lilac robe. Saul sat beside him, imperious, and seeing him maintain his dignity in my presence was refreshing. He was a seeder, and he embodied his duty in all its splendor: he did not bend, despite the intimidation he must have felt. And then, as I took my seat opposite them, on a single cushioned chair, I saw a boy to Saul’s right.

"Patriarch Seriel, allow me to introduce Enoch, the fruit of Simon and myself. He reached his Age of Consecration yesterday."

He sat there like the sacred figures in holy paintings, hands resting upon his thighs, his neck bowed just long enough to greet me, every muscle pulled taut by a restrained emotion. It was not his beauty that struck me first, but his purity. I did not imagine him made of flesh, but carved from moonstone. He bore the unmistakable signature of the Domiel. His complexion shimmered like softened moonlight—both ivory and translucent—and his long, untamed curls were crowned with the most charming bridal veil.

His eyes, opaline blue, betrayed his fire. He watched me with a silent fervor, as though he were observing an angel descended from stained-glass windows. And yet his education was beyond question. He remained patient despite the eager brightness burning in those pearls, and I caught him fighting the urge to look me over from head to toe. This boy was beautiful—just as Simon was—and he possessed everything the Society sought in a bearer. Everything in him cried sweetness, docility, and sensitivity.

Everything about him evoked a moonstone brought to life by a beating heart. That same subtle, almost celestial glow seemed to breathe across the surface of his skin. His silence was not the silence of one taught to disappear in the presence of the powerful, but that of a selfless offering—someone ready to live his life for others without ever imposing himself.

He did not have the face or bearing of a neglected bearer. He was loved, protected, cherished, and I could sense that what ruled this home was love. How easy life must have been for him. He had no need to charm nor persuade—his mere existence was enough. Breathing in quietly, I caught his fragrance: that gentle scent of angelica.

Enoch waited, and I looked away. I still had not spoken a single word, and I remained in my silence. Saul began praising his offspring and what was to come. He spoke of the household’s joy upon hearing of my choice regarding Enoch, of their patience through the waiting, and Simon smiled softly beneath the words of his seeder. Saul added a handful of more political remarks, slipping in references to the influence that a union between Domiel and Seriel would bring, and the honor it would restore to them—while alluding, half in shame, to the act of their second son. I nodded politely, withdrawing further into silence.

Then, accompanied by the subtle fragrance of food, a form moved from the shadows into the light. A figure of incredible silence, placing bowls of dishes upon the small table before us while another very young child brought fresh juices.

A brush against my knee.

A breath exhaled.

The barely audible click of a tray being set down.

This being was covered in stigmata. He did not speak; he did not introduce himself. He did not raise his eyes. He placed the scented cups, the carefully arranged fruits, and the traditional sweets of his lineage. He made no sound. Even his steps seemed to belong to another realm, as though he walked outside of time, or as though the wings of angels bore him. His body still carried the traces of punishment: the violet stigmata piercing his feet, his hands, his hip, his back, and his skull—each visible through the openings of his tunic. Shameful marks he seemed to carry without fear.

He should have inspired discomfort in me. Or worse: contempt.

For a moment, the world tightened around that silhouette, around that second son. Nothing else existed but that pale throat held in silence; those long moonlike strands dulled by pain. A flame rose quietly beneath my tongue. A thirst. A shock. A summons. A question. A desire.

I had never believed in miracles, but this one I lived—because if God were to have a face, it would be this one.