Fifth day of September, in the year 2556, in the main home of the Patriarch Domiel.

The private residence of Domiel opened before me the way temples did: with that religious silence and solemn aura that no one ever dared to disturb. This place, raised not by human hands but by an ancient faith belonging only to the orators, was one of the most beautiful among the Patriarchs. And for good reason—Domiel was one of the most esteemed Patriarchs of the Society. I did not pale much beside him, but I had taken up my duty only a year ago, after the death of Seriel VII. Domiel, however, had embraced his role for over forty years.

Everything here shimmered. From the ceiling to the ground beneath my feet, moonstone reigned supreme—pearly, translucent, almost alive. It absorbed light only to return it diffused, soft, sovereign. The walls were not adorned with a thousand trinkets scattered here and there. In truth, they already were, in the Domiel fashion. Their surface, smooth as the ice of a frozen lake, cast back every reflection, every gesture, every breath. Domiel claimed by this that all were allowed to see themselves as he saw us.

He was a Patriarch who had fulfilled his role for many years—and continued to do so. He ruled and guided those of his lineage with an iron hand, but above all with a gentleness and understanding that were far from common among Patriarchs. If excellence existed within our caste, Domiel was assuredly its instructor.

Before me, the corridors stretched like waking dreams. No dust. No sound. Nothing to mar the perfection of the place. Surely such a place appeared only when one dreamt of paradise. And yet... every step, every arch, every threshold seemed polished by God's own eternity. There was no garish splendor, no arrogant wealth—only purity. Height. A restrained, naked majesty. Everything that defined Domiel.

I paused a moment before one of the large openings overlooking a marble patio. Here, in the Domiel domains, even the sky seemed whiter than blue. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the music of cherubs, the chants of angels, the prayers of seraphim. I could have savored it for hours, without ever growing weary. Perhaps even a lifetime, so soothing was this place.

Yet I had a task, so I resumed my steps—unhurried, silent. For even if impatience gnawed at my bones, I knew that calm would be my greatest ally in the conversation to come. When I reached the great white wooden doors, I stopped to admire them. Carved into the wood was a fresco reminiscent of The Creation of Adam, though I recognized the two faces sculpted there: Domiel and his bearer.

A token of love.

It was not rare for love to bloom between a bearer and a seeder, though it was not required for the carnal union. In truth, some bearers could even be transferred to another household during their lifetime if a request was made—one deemed more advantageous for the genetic, moral, or doctrinal needs of the Society. Though it was uncommon.

As for Domiel, he had once had a bearer in the time of Seriel VII, with whom he had shared many years, but that bearer had died in labor after their third fruit. A few years later, Domiel had taken another bearer. If the first union had been merely carnal, with this second bearer, there was more: everyone now knew that Domiel had grown so enamored with him that he no longer distinguished him from his beloved. Bearers dreamed of such a fate; seeders laughed at it; and the Patriarchs... we understood. That alone was a victory.

On each side of the door, two concordists stood guard. In their military uniforms, they ensured the safety of Patriarch Domiel. After a few seconds, they opened the doors.

The office unfolded like a nave. I paused, struck once again by the vast beauty that greeted me. I had come here a few times already, but no matter how often, it was impossible to remain unmoved.

The walls, carved once again from that moonstone, rose high—very high—toward a ceiling etched with pale veins, like the grooves of a sanctified sky. The light here was divine. Behind the desk, standing majestically, rose enormous gothic windows so tall they seemed to brush the heavens. The stained glass was not colored—it was clear. It allowed the morning light to enter in great golden blades, as solemn as psalms.

The polished floor reflected my steps and my own form. There was no shadow here.

And at the center, seated behind a wide desk carved from the same wood as the doors, was Domiel.

Crushing in his presence, even without raising his eyes. He had no need to. His mere existence filled the room. His breathing alone dictated the rhythm of the space. And when I finally stopped at a proper distance from the desk, my trembling reflection quivering in the pearly veins of the marble floor, I smiled.

For Domiel held on his lap someone I knew all too well.

Resting on the Patriarch's legs, curled like a cat, was a figure the light itself had chosen to grace with all its tenderness: a bearer.

He resembled me. But where I bore the beauty of our lineage like a hidden blade meant to strike, the bearer carried it with the luminous innocence of those born to be adored. He was slender, nearly fragile, with that natural tranquility of creatures who know the world will always watch them but never dare to wound them. His shoulders, delicate; his arms, pale and bare; his chest rising with a calm breath—everything in him whispered peace, and I was glad for it.

His hair fell in long cascades of gold, brighter than the gilding on sacred frescoes. It slipped along his hips, curled over the velvet of the seat, and streamed down the Patriarch's shoulder, catching the light and imprisoning it. One could swear it had been woven from the very fabric of the sun. His lashes, so long they cast shadows over the tops of his cheekbones, formed a soft barrier above amber eyes—golden like ripe wheat, yet far deeper. In that gaze lived the gentleness of summer days, and the serene innocence of those born to be loved unconditionally.

His softness was that of a bearer; but his beauty belonged to the Seriel line.

His hands rested upon his knees, folded with modesty, and his whole body adjusted effortlessly to Domiel's, as if he had always belonged to that place, that moment, beneath the Patriarch's shadow and the world's light.

He laughed softly against the Patriarch's ear, pressing small kisses here and there between fulfilled smiles. Then the bearer noticed my presence, and his eyes brightened with wonder.

"Good morning, Serah. I see you are doing well."

He was my younger brother, Domiel's bearer.

Domiel lifted his eyes in turn.

He was not simply old. What emanated from him was ancient. I could feel the weight of every decision he had ever made; of every household he had guided, helped, watched over across decades; of the choices that had led him to this chair, in this magnificent estate. Domiel did not move, and yet I could feel the crushing gravity of his presence. To him, I was still young, and I myself admitted I had much left to learn.

His features, though marked by time, carried no fatigue; only a pure happiness shaped his expression. And he bore the traits of his lineage: his pale skin looked sculpted from an almost translucent whiteness, akin to the moonstone found deep within his lands. In that pallor lay something sacred, distant—something unreachable.

His hair, long and pulled back, white as snow, fell down his back with the discipline of a regal mantle. His eyes were shimmering pearls: a pale mauve, sometimes shifting toward a winter blue, as though God himself had hesitated. His gaze was deep, unfathomable. To look at him was like leaning over the edge of a well that reflected nothing but oneself—one's sins exposed.

His mouth was thin, almost too beautiful for his age and for the honeyed threats that could so easily slip from it; a pink only slightly brighter than stone. It did not smile.

His suit, pure white, embraced his broad chest and powerful shoulders with military precision. Every seam seemed crafted solely for him. The buttons, barely visible, were of the meticulous craftsmanship unique to the Domiel household. Nothing stuck out. Nothing was left to chance. This attire was tailored to the exact millimeter.

In his right hand—large, thick, veined as though a strike was always ready—he held a quill. A snowy owl feather. Long, immaculate, so delicate one might have mistaken it for something alive. And I knew that countless letters, summons, invitations, and warnings had been written with it. Even in my youth, that same plume rested in his grasp.

Domiel was more than a man: he was the Patriarch incarnate. He was forgiveness after judgment; the father no one had ever seen tremble; the absolute voice everyone obeyed.

And yet he was welcoming, as a cathedral is to the one who comes to confess. I was not surprised to see his great smile as he opened his arms to invite me forward.

"Seriel, I received your letter this morning. What hides behind such urgency? Shouldn't you be aboard your airship with Enoch at this hour?"

"Did you cancel, big brother?" Serah asked with a teasing laugh.

"No?" exclaimed Domiel.

His exclamation hovered between question and astonishment. He straightened even more, one arm wrapping around my young brother's slender waist to steady him. I stepped forward and sat in one of the chairs before the desk, raising my hands to calm them both.

"Enoch is an absolutely delightful bearer."

"Ha! Did I not tell you, little one? Enoch is a sweetheart, like every child of my lineage, but this household has produced children more beautiful than moonstones!"

"Domiel says that Saul has received more than one request for that boy, despite the unfavourable condition of his elder brother."

Those two fit perfectly together. Certainly that was why they had fallen in love. No one could doubt it. One only had to witness the glances exchanged—long, tender, almost sickening in their sweetness—or the gestures, natural as breathing.

"I was fortunate that Domiel granted me this young boy. You were right—Simon or his fruits, the Domiel children of this household are the most beautiful bearers I have ever seen," I said.

"I can't wait to see one," Serah exclaimed.

Domiel, lips brushing his beloved's ear, whispered, "None could ever compare to you." And were he not Domiel, I would have told him that Serah held his own quite well, though he still could not rival the bearers of this household. However, I remained silent as they shared a lingering kiss, unbothered in the slightest.

"What brings you here, then? You mentioned an emergency."

I nodded.

"It is an honor that you chose me among all of Enoch's suitors," I assured him. "However, I have one more request to make. Allow me to abuse your kindness a little further."

Serah slid off Domiel's lap when my serious tone made him tap lightly against his hip. My younger brother stood behind him like a guardian angel, and my fellow Patriarch's gaze latched onto me with utmost attention. I had to be careful with my words, my posture. If anything betrayed me... Domiel loved every member of his lineage as though they were his own children.