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

The Patriarchs. They were the fathers of the Society, the fathers of our bloodlines, and they embodied “excellence, innate authority, visionary spirit, genealogical purity.”.“[…] elevated to the rank of Patriarch are the children who embody excellence, innate authority, vision, and genealogical purity […] and it shall be their duty to watch over the Society and its children, as well as to guide others,” according to The Codex of Virtues. They were, to everyone, those who came just after God and the angels, and nothing in this world held more strength, glory, or power than they did.

I had only ever seen portraits of Patriarchs. I had only ever met our lineage’s Patriarch. So nothing had truly prepared me for this sight: the heavy blond curls falling with solemn weight around a severe, fine face, cascading down his lower back like a waterfall; the clarity of liquid amber in his eyes, like worn gold, and in that gaze shimmered a troubling gleam. It wasn’t warm—only burning. I suffocated under it. And yet, he didn’t move. He barely even breathed.

His elegance, dripping with wealth, looked almost misplaced in this household. He wore light beige trousers tucked into tall boots of smooth, perfectly creased leather. His legs were long, stylish, elegantly crossed on a chair far beneath his dignity. Over this came a jacket ending at his hips—a little too short to hide anything, but long enough to sculpt his thick, powerful torso. The high collar looked as though it strangled his voice, for we had not heard a single sound from him. And down his back, his train fell to the left side, asymmetrical and deliberate.

And then, there was that silk drape. It crossed diagonally over his chest, passing directly over his heart, almost constricting it. It anchored behind him, half disappearing into the train, yet it rested across all his seat. Along its length hung fine chains of real gold, trembling ever so faintly, as if his breath were so serene that nothing in the world could disturb it.

There was also a flower in the right pocket of his jacket. Saul had spoken of it this morning. The Seriel lineage bore the “helianthe,” an infertile barbadine bloom carrying the colors of the sun. It opened widely in his pocket, regal in its posture, its dawn-petals unfolding like the thousand arms of a celestial choir. At its center, a miracle almost never seen: a crown of bright orange filaments. Its imposing, oval, spellbinding corolla looked carved from satin. Copper veins traced across its petals like delicate lifelines. It exhaled a sweet scent, like ripe fruit.

Suddenly, I noticed how intensely—too intensely—I had been staring at him. I averted my gaze, only to cross his accidentally, with painful slowness. A sharp fear seized me. My mouth was dry, as though I had returned from a forty-day pilgrimage through the desert; my heart hammered, and my belly pulsed painfully, like old wounds reopening.

I was terrified—terrified that this Patriarch could be so beautiful. The sweetest honey could always be poison.

"Patriarch Seriel, allow me to present this household properly."

The one addressed inclined his head slowly.

"I am Saul, of the Raguel lineage, and under my protection is Simon, bearer of the Domiel lineage. From our carnal unions were born four fruits. The eldest, Elie, became an orator in the Church of Virtues nine years ago. Enoch is our third son, newly of age to fulfill his duty as a bearer. And here is Caiaphas, our youngest, still far too young to know his path."

The Patriarch had not touched a single dish we had offered. He examined each individual in turn, following Saul’s presentation with meticulous care, and when the latter finished, those golden eyes fell upon me. They burned with such intensity that it felt like being branded. Behind my back, my clasped hands twisted painfully, while a knot tightened in my stomach.

"Four sons. The union between you and Simon produced four sons."

His voice was nearly a whisper, so soft it was almost not a voice at all. Monotone, yet chillingly clear—sharp, each syllable falling like a sentence. It carried that religious timbre of orators, those who preach from childhood. Slow, deliberate, every word weighed to amplify the force behind it. It resembled a silent question, but in truth, it sounded like an order.

"Yet you have presented only three. What of him?"

His piercing gaze left no doubt about whom he meant. Saul did not bother looking up at me, but Simon and Enoch did, startled.

"Abel," Saul replied. "He is our second-born. As you can see, Father, he committed an irredeemable sin."

My seeder rose and, with the calm that defined him, knelt before the Patriarch. I could not contain a gasp, stepping forward instinctively before stopping myself. It would have been a greater disgrace still to attempt to lift him while he bent the knee for my actions.

"I beg you to forgive him, Patriarch Seriel. He has been punished for his crime, and though this excuses nothing, I implore you to allow his presence."

I met Enoch’s eyes, and he seemed to beg me to act. Then I saw Simon, whose gentle gaze silently showed me what I had to do. So, I stepped forward to stand beside Saul, and I bent my knees. I lowered my head even further than I ever had before.

"Do not hold this household responsible for my sins alone," I murmured.

I knew I had sinned. I had apologized for it, but never for having done it. If I knelt at this Patriarch’s feet, it was for Saul’s honor; for Simon’s request; for Enoch’s silent plea. I did not know what this Patriarch was truly worth, nor how he would treat my younger brother, but I did not wish to be the cause of any cruelty that might harm him. That was why I knelt.

Suddenly, the brush of leather made me flinch. The Patriarch’s gloved hand slid down to caress the bare nape of my neck in a gesture of absolution. A shiver ran through me from head to toe, steeped in disgust, as the horrors of eight years ago flared behind my eyelids. I bit into my tongue until blood filled my mouth, only to stop myself from reacting and worsening the situation. But the more I held back, the more nausea clawed at my throat.

"Rise. The stigmas covering his body are penance enough for absolution."

When I finally stood, my eyes brimmed with restrained emotion.

"Punishments exist to teach faith to children, but they also exist to purify. Do not renounce a son who has accepted such cleansing."

I stepped back, burned by his touch, by his words, by his very presence. I nearly tripped as my leg hit the chair behind me, catching myself just in time. I retreated further still, trying to erase myself as much as possible. I hated this situation. I hated the weight blooming in my chest. That golden gaze anchored to me made my head spin and awakened every one of my scars. Saul, meanwhile, was seated once more on the sofa, Simon’s caring hand wrapped around his bicep.

Caiaphas was sitting on a small stool near the food we had both brought. When I caught his anxious little gaze, he shifted as if to come to me, but I discreetly raised a hand to stop him. He sank back, head lowered, his sad eyes fixed on the food. My heart clenched. I wanted to throw propriety aside, gather him into my arms, and comfort him, but… I had to act properly—for Enoch.

All of this, all this silent endurance beneath that Patriarch’s gaze, I did it for him.

Regaining composure, I stepped further back until I stood behind Enoch. Today, he was even lovelier than on any day God had made. He embodied everything that made him a bearer: his modest, graceful posture; the veil of purity and modesty he wore so naturally; his humility before a Patriarch; his faith shining through his behavior and the teachings that had shaped him. Enoch was everything an seeder or a Patriarch could desire—and it was exactly that which terrified me.

But he wanted this. Enoch desired all of it, and I was no one to stop him from being what his duty required him to be.

I had seen—briefly—the way his eyes burned with desire for this Patriarch. He had fallen for him. One breath, one look, was all it took for him to cling to him, and I knew, because I had lived it, however briefly, that Enoch would give everything to satisfy the Patriarch. I saw myself in him, eight years younger.

So I offered a prayer to God, begging Him to watch over Enoch and his future—that it be peaceful, even if only as peaceful as Simon’s. That was enough for Simon; enough for a bearer. It would be enough for Enoch.

I prayed fiercely.

"This will not be the first fruit your household gives to its duty, but I must inform you: my personal domain lies three days by dirigible from the Domiel territories."

We knew what that meant. Enoch and Simon exchanged a brief glance—filled with love… and farewell.

"Once we depart from Domiel lands, are you aware that you will no longer be able to see Enoch as you wish?"

"We are prepared," Saul assured him. "Such is the way of things. It is time for Enoch to found his own household at your side."

The Patriarch nodded. His voice remained a clear, cutting whisper. I sensed not a trace of tenderness in it, and in his eyes I saw nothing but the duty he bore. If he desired Enoch, it was only to secure a child for his lineage. I had seen, at times, rare moments of tenderness in Saul, beyond his usual sternness, toward Simon. But in the Patriarch, nothing suggested such a thing could ever exist. And then he looked at Simon, silently ordering something without a single word.

Simon looked at Saul, then back at the Patriarch, who offered no further explanation for what he expected. Then Simon rose and bowed over the table. He began filling a small dish with fruit and pastries, and served the father a cup of fresh juice.

Bearers always served seeders, but we had been taught that this was different for Patriarchs. As fathers of the Society, it was for them to choose whether the hand that served them would be their own or that of a bearer. It was said that serving a Patriarch was a great honor—an act of trust.

Through this gesture, I knew Simon must have been the happiest bearer alive, and Enoch was right behind him.

“You are a bearer,” continued Patriarch Seriel. “You are sensitive and loving, Simon, and I easily discern such qualities in everyone. This home is, without a doubt, the most overflowing with affection I have ever had the honor to witness.”

Back at Saul’s side, Simon placed a hand over his heart. The compliment—if it truly was one—had shaken him deeply. So much so that he replied:

“Your words are an honor to my humble self, Father. This home is my entire life, and what you say now gives meaning to all my hard labor.”

His voice trembled with emotion while the man before him brought the cup of fresh juice to his lips. He displayed no emotion of his own, save for a serene stillness that made him resemble a frozen painting.

“Is it not too heavy a burden to let another of your fruits leave you after what befell the last one?”

His words struck like a blade straight to the heart. No one—ever—had asked such a question; no one had ever cared, except for me. I frowned painfully, swallowing back tears as I set my gaze upon Simon. I awaited his answer with the same blend of dread and urgency I had felt on the day of my Age of Initiation, when I had waited to be told which duty would guide my steps. Simon hesitated. He did not know how honest he was allowed to be.

“I…”

“Be honest,” the Patriarch warned.

“I am terrified.”

My throat tightened. It was… the first time Simon had ever—

“Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin. My second fruit endured torment, and I was powerless before his suffering. As a bearer, it was a pain I would not wish upon anyone…”

He was crying.

“If I am given another chance to help him, I would take it, for no bearer deserves what happened to him. I do not excuse his sin, but I was terrified—and I am terrified now for Enoch.”

The Patriarch rose, and I stepped aside to clear his path. I was ready to act if he raised a hand against Simon for his words. Simon kept his head stubbornly bowed, but I heard his sobs. They tore at my chest, and I could not stop my own silent tears. His words were everything I had dreamed of hearing from him—so many times. Why did he say them only now?

“I could not bear for another of my fruits to suffer such torment, so please, Father, take care of my little boy… I beg you. And forgive my words.”

Suddenly—without a sound—the Patriarch’s hand settled on Simon’s nape. I witnessed what I had missed earlier: the long fingers sliding across bared skin. I shuddered as the gloved touch traced here and there along Simon’s pale neck. He granted him forgiveness where, I knew, many others would have punished him. He could have been accused of insulting a Patriarch, of doubting him, and would have faced the penal sentence of the burned voice. They would have cut out his tongue before branding “heretic” onto his beautiful face.

“You ask forgiveness for being a bearer? Sensitivity and love are what make you a bearer, and you fulfill a role I could never have upheld. Do not apologize for loving so deeply.”

I placed a hand on my stomach and tightened it. It hurt—oh, it hurt so much.

“I will take care of him. From our carnal union will be born a fruit who will grow in a home inspired by yours.”

And I felt utterly unwell, for the searing burn of gold watched me without pause.