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

I had taken my seat at the far left end of the table, facing Saul, who sat at the opposite side. Between us stretched the long table prepared by the bearers of the household. It looked more like an altar than anything meant for a meal, with the blinding purity of its tablecloth, its napkins, and its dishes. Each lineage had its signature foods—ingredients they used more than others, the mark of their meals. For the Domiel lineage, purity was paramount.

Everything was pale, washed of all impurity: slivers of pear laid out like the petals of a communion host; translucent clusters of grapes still clinging to their thin stems; white peaches peeled down to the flesh, smooth as a newborn's skin. There were blanched almonds set in a glass bowl, and thin unleavened bread whose scent intertwined with that of the fruit. No wine, no red, no shadow—nothing that could evoke blood or sin.

I brushed my fingers along the edge of the table. The fabric was soft, humble, just like every bearer of this household. Nothing overflowed. Everything was contained, pure, as nowhere else.

To Saul's right, Simon served him, just as he had served me moments earlier. He did the same for the youngest, Caiaphas, who, despite his age, nibbled carefully at a peeled fig. His manners already carried elegance and restraint, and his duty, slowly, was weaving itself before my eyes. Enoch, on Saul's left, served Abel after Abel had served him, for no bearer was permitted to serve themselves—except the bearer overseeing the household. But never in public. I had granted Simon that privilege only for this occasion.

Enoch, now loosened by a few words and smiles, dared steal glances in my direction. He was shy, intimidated, and seemingly charmed. It would have been a lie to claim I did not savor his beauty—as well as Simon's—for both were lovely.

But it was on my left that my senses strained and faltered. My skin shivered.

Abel.

I did not look at him. I had no need to, for his entire being seemed to condemn mine to obsession. His presence seeped slowly into me, like the white liqueurs served to Saul and me, and a flame licked hungrily at my senses and desires until every one of them stirred awake. I felt his faint warmth brushing the leather of my glove—our hands so close, unmoving—and his quiet, almost restrained calm disrupted the perfect severity of the table.

I savored his presence like forbidden fruit—for he was. I had no right to touch him, yet how was I meant to resist when his scent clung to me? It was the same angelica essence Enoch wore, but mixed with Abel's own fragrance, it set every sense on alert. I felt constantly pulled by him and toward him. He was a fruit denied to me.

I broke a piece of bread, though I did not raise it to my lips. My gaze, first lost in the blinding white of the dishes, drifted inevitably toward him—because I could no longer resist temptation.

Abel.

He was not looking at me. He watched a pale fruit between his fingers, a date soaked until all color had fled from it. He did not take a bite. He waited—I did not know for what. He was silent, upright in that silence, as I was. His thumb traced slow circles on the soft skin of the fruit. Each of his gestures felt like the work of God to me...

And then he turned his head.

His eyes met mine like foam meeting the shore. Without violence. But with the constancy of inevitability. His gaze did not flee. It held me prisoner. There was neither defiance nor submission in those eyes—none of what one expected from a Domiel bearer before a Seriel. And though this was not our first exchanged glance, it was the first time I no longer knew which of us had invaded the other.

The more I looked at him, the clearer it became. How dangerous it was to be near him, to desire him so fiercely without even knowing him, and how the marks scattered across his skin entranced me rather than repulsed me. He is forbidden fruit, I told myself, torn between duty and the abyss. I was committing so many sins: the offense of inappropriate desire—punished by nocturnal purification, isolation, and lobotomy—or, should I give in, the offense of the illegitimate seeder, punished by castration.

A forbidden fruit.

We both turned away. I knew not what crossed his mind, just as he could not know what crossed mine. Together, in mirrored gestures, we lifted our food to our lips.

"Patriarch Seriel, could you describe your domain?"

Enoch's voice was soft. It managed to pull part of my attention away from his elder brother.

"Water runs between the ancient stones. Light reigns over the open, warm homes and the streets. Everything that grows there is exotic, and gardens bloom everywhere—on the columns, the bathhouses, the pathways. Spice settles over everything."

"It must be beautiful. I can't wait to see it," Enoch said with a radiant smile.

"The barbadine is said to be the finest of all fruits growing in your lands," Saul added.

"What is it?" Caiaphas asked.

Simon placed a hand on his son's shoulder to remind him to speak more softly, but with a glance, I signaled that it was not necessary to correct him just yet. Education was important, of course, but today was important for all of us—different as well. So we could savor this meal in perfect tranquility.

"Barbadine is a fruit," I explained.

I had no idea how to speak to a child, and before I could think of the right words, Abel spoke. His finger lifted with delicate grace toward the flower pinned to my attire.

"It's a barbadine flower. It comes from a fruit people call 'passion fruit.' It's the largest of its kind, that's what Saul told me," he explained to Caiaphas. "But the flower the Patriarch is wearing is of another kind. It's an infertile variety."

"Abel..." Simon murmured.

The household looked at him with contained tension. And for good reason: it was not his place to speak. Teaching or correcting Caiaphas belonged to Simon and Saul. In public, Saul had to correct his offspring, and in private, Simon did. Abel had no role here—yet the youngest realized none of this and nodded eagerly, delighted to be included in the conversation.

"Abel, leave the table."

He lifted his head toward his seeder.

"You'll be on cleaning duty after the meal."

A silent duel unfolded between the bearer and the head of the household, and I watched it. No bearer was ever permitted to behave this way—to stand up to his seeder, to defy his gaze. I could tell words burned on Abel's tempting lips, but he held them back. A look passed between Abel and Enoch before the elder finally lowered his gaze. In that gesture, I saw no submission, only obligation. He took no pleasure in being a bearer.

I did not know what had passed between the brothers, but I sensed that ordinarily, Abel would never have allowed himself to be defeated.

A quiet, wicked voice whispered how delightful it would be to see this rebellious bearer bow his neck for me—without tension, with willingness and docility. How tempting it would be to watch him embrace his nature and yield to me.

But I returned to myself when Abel rose from the table, dismissed by the head of the household. Caiaphas tried to follow him, but Simon held him back. The boy asked his bearer whether he had done something wrong. Simon whispered something to his ear. Unfortunately, I heard nothing, and Abel slipped from my senses, leaving only emptiness behind.

"Forgive us, Father. It has been eight years now since Abel committed the sin of breaking his fruit before the harvest, and yet, I still find traces of insolence in him. It is my responsibility to ensure it never happens again."

Saul was undoubtedly a very good seeder. He did not waver despite the love he bore his fruits or the bearer entrusted to him. He remained firm and stood ready to accept blame.

"It has been eight years since he last appeared in Society. You are the first person he's seen since then. His manners must have faded."

A seed sprouted in my mind, like the budding of a flower.

"Eight years, you say."

Gently, the stem of that budding thought trembled, hesitant to reach. Light touched it timidly in the shadows of my mind, unsure—for what was emerging in the depths of my soul bordered on the unacceptable. Then, with sovereign slowness, with the elegance of a barbadine flower unfolding, the bud split open.

"Perhaps I could remedy that."

There was no force in my voice. I remained calm, letting the first petals unfurl and bloom in their thoughts. Softly, yet inevitably, the idea began its path through their minds. Saul and Simon exchanged a long look heavy with unspoken meaning. They were uncertain. The petals were still fragile, still pale. It was up to me to color them.

"Abel is twenty-six. If you ever hope for him to rejoin Society and his duty, he cannot remain here."

"It's just that..."

For the first time, Saul hesitated. He managed to hold my gaze—one that, I had no doubt, burned with impatience.

Patience.

Patience.

"Abel is... I know Abel better than anyone. It is not easy to make him listen to reason. It is still too soon to hope for a return to Society, Father."

He protected him like a lion shields its cubs—fierce, devoted.

I sinned with my inappropriate desire, for not only was I drawn to a stigmatized bearer, but he was also the elder brother of the bearer who was meant to be truly mine.

And yet I had sunk my teeth into the forbidden fruit. I refused to let go—not now that I had glimpsed a chance to keep him by my side, if only to admire him. Or to tempt him in return.

"I could be the one to take care of him."

I could see the emotion flickering in Enoch's eyes. It wasn't horror, but it was clear the idea unsettled him far more than it pleased him. Still, I continued. Petals took on color and courage in the minds of those who nurtured and oversaw this household, and the petals of that blooming flower revealed a heart of orange filaments. The flower of the Seriel lineage was opening—wide, alive, radiant—in the minds of others.

"Father, are you suggesting taking Abel as a second bearer? »

Saul's voice was barely a whisper, as if he had spoken something unspeakable. And he had. Two bearers of the same lineage—worse, of the same family—could not be under the tutelage of the same seeder, or Patriarch.

"I am proposing to take Abel under my tutelage in order to reintegrate him into the Society. I am a Patriarch: worldly dinners and balls are never lacking in my home or on my estates. It will be the perfect opportunity."

"Forgive me," Simon interjected, "far be it from me to think this is a thoughtless idea, but taking Abel under your tutelage... You know what kind of remarks that exposes you to, Father. Abel is stigmatized."

"He is. And I am a Seriel, Patriarch of this lineage, the eighth of my name. 'He who doubts the Patriarch doubts the origin itself,'" I recited.

Simon nodded quickly and lowered his head in a gesture of obedience. I had not quoted the Codex of Virtues to warn him of his words. In truth, I had done it for those yet to come. Simon was right: Abel was stigmatized. Taking such a bearer under my tutelage—me, a Patriarch—could attract the most insolent stares. But once again, I was a Patriarch. I was committing no visible sin except being merciful toward a sinner. I was generous enough to give a disgraced bearer another chance, and that was what most people would think.

"Would you truly be willing to do that, Father?" Saul asked.

The idea had taken seed. The flower had bloomed. Its petals undulated like the folds of a celestial veil descending from divine heights, now fully unfurled—radiant. They saw a hope they had never dared to expect. For Saul and Simon, I had become a light they would now cling to.

"I am," I affirmed.

"Why...?"

Enoch's voice, soft, frail, uncertain, resonated. I understood his question—why must it be this way—but I pretended it wasn't obvious. I answered as if he had asked why would you agree to do this, the very same question shining in Simon's pale eyes and Saul's dark ones.

"The Patriarch Domiel has already entrusted your person to me. I would like you to leave this home with a light heart, and I will ensure that by offering your elder brother the same chance you now have."

Enoch forced a smile, tightening his pretty doll-like features.

"It would be a true honor, Father," Saul whispered.

I nodded. I was playing a dangerous game. Even Lucifer had burned his wings. I was not exempt from the same fate.

"So be it. Tomorrow, I will speak with the Patriarch Domiel about this matter and, once it is done, I will come to harvest your fruits."

I could hardly wait.