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

There was something indecent about staring at him for so long, and yet I could not bring myself to look away.

Seated across from me, Patriarch Seriel held a delicate cup between his long fingers—too fragile, almost ridiculous in such a broad hand. He held it with the same gravity a knight might grant his sword. And yet, he was not trying to impress. At least, it did not seem so. It was simply natural to him. He appeared carved from something older than the world itself; like a painting on display. The kind one never touches, only contemplates from afar, in silence—and I realized how fortunate I was to be seated at his side.

He reigned there, in the peaceful garden of our household, and already within my heart. Everything about him—from his unhurried gestures to the way the shadows of the trees danced across his face—breathed a natural, absolute sovereignty. He said nothing. He did nothing. And yet I had never felt so fulfilled. Just being there, breathing the same air as him, sipping an angelica infusion while his mere presence rewrote the very definition of beauty.

His blond hair—such a deep blond—flowed like a river of sunlight down his back. Each curl seemed heavy with meaning, heavy with centuries, though according to Saul, he was barely in his thirties. Even the wind dared not brush against it, though it shamelessly lifted the veil firmly fastened to my own hair.

And his gaze—his gaze was of another nature entirely. Golden, yes, but glowing like an ember that survived wind and rain alike. It did not warm me; it consumed me. Just as it had from the very first moment it fell upon my wretched being. I drowned in the brightness of his eyes, scarcely daring to breathe. It was not a gaze one endured. And yet, I felt as though he saw me—not as I was, but as I wished to be: better, worthier… more beautiful.

He crossed his legs with that symbolic grace reserved for the higher castes. He sat there, legs crossed with a mastered nonchalance that screamed nobility. His attire was almost cruel in its precision, tailored like a second skin: a white suit sculpting his powerful torso and emphasizing every line of his body.

He did not look at me often. But when he did, I felt as though he truly saw me. Me. Entirely.

He had a flower tucked into his pocket. A tall, radiant helianthus, colored like dawn itself. It seemed almost to breathe in rhythm with him—vast and divine, haloed in light, its petals opening wide. Its sweet fragrance wrapped around the moment, and I closed my eyes briefly. I wanted to touch it, to pluck it. But I knew it would wither far from him. Like me, perhaps. That flower could not exist without him. No more than I could now. I did not know whether he felt even a fraction of the admiration I felt for him—certainly not—but as for me, I was already at his knees, without having moved.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

And it was for all of this—for his peaceful silences as well—that I had accepted his request from last night. It had shocked me, shattered my heart, to learn that he too had fallen under the spell of my elder brother. Abel made everyone pale with his beauty. And yet, I was now relieved, for Patriarch Seriel had come to spend the day with me while Patriarch Domiel spoke with Saul in the household.

Moreover, Patriarch Seriel had assured me that he would not take Abel as a bearer. I would be the only one. And so, I saw in this a true opportunity for Abel to rediscover a taste for life. For that, I was ready to help him, and I had managed to take genuine pleasure in Seriel’s visit. It was not yet official, and Abel himself had not been informed, but I had no doubt he would seize the chance to accompany me and watch over me. That way, he could even see how the Patriarch would take care of me.

His worries would surely fade away.

"I am rather poor company," I admitted. "I do not know what to say to break the silence."

And I was a little anxious about saying something foolish. Though the Patriarch would soon be my household, I still felt a certain restraint when speaking to him. I was afraid of committing a fault. So when his golden gaze settled upon my humble self, I straightened instinctively.

"Silence is a form of language as well."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

He set his cup of infusion down and observed me for a few seconds. I hoped so dearly to be to his liking.

"Silence often carries more confessions than words. In just a few minutes with you, within this silence, I have learned that pauses in conversation make you uncomfortable; that you are particularly curious; and that it is difficult for you to remain still."

My mouth parted softly in surprise. He truly had been watching me, then. I was not the only observer.

"Many poets have written of this language."

"You enjoy poetry?" I asked.

His golden gaze lowered for a few seconds to his infusion. It was impossible for me to know what he might be thinking within that silence surrounding him, but I wished dearly that I could. He nodded simply, and in that instant, I cursed myself for never having taken an interest in poetry. Children were always taught The Codex of Virtues from a very young age, and it took years and years to know it well enough to honor one’s household. Yet even though it remained the most important work of all, everyone was given the opportunity to discover other writings once night had fallen.

Elie, the eldest of my brothers, had read biblical works in abundance. His former bedroom had scarcely changed after his departure, and the dust of years might have covered the Bibles and testaments if Simon had not carefully cleaned them. Abel, on the other hand, had read poetry to the point of losing his mind over it—so much so that, as a child, he had spent certain nights reciting verses to Saul, or so I had been told. Caiaphas was still too young, but he adored tales, like all little ones. Simon had read stories to each of us and now did so for our youngest, but even Simon had his books of predilection: cookbooks. Simon’s dishes were exquisite.

As for Saul… he did not seem particularly fond of books, yet I often saw him on Monday mornings leafing through the newspaper of Society.

As for me, I enjoyed romance novels and works on “the art of being a bearer.”

"What is your favorite poem?"

I knew nothing about poetry, but ignorance had never prevented curiosity.

"It is a poem by Victor, dated November 1829."

I liked his voice. It was not loud—quite the opposite. It was low, and one had to strain a little to hear it properly. Was it a way of forcing the person before him to focus solely on him? It hardly mattered, for the steady cadence of his voice—never rising too high nor falling too low—charmed me deeply. To hear a poem recited by him…

"Would you recite it for me?"

The Patriarch observed me for long seconds, and I thought I might melt beneath his gaze. What was he thinking? Oh God, if only I had been granted the gift of knowing. Then he rose with feline elegance, and just as I feared I might have offended him, his large hand was offered to me, palm up.

"What if we took a walk as well? The gardens of this household are a delight to the eyes. It would be a shame not to stroll through them under such pleasant weather."

The sky was clear, bathed in a pure, warm glow. The gentle sun teased my skin without aggression, for we were on one of Patriarch Domiel’s domains. God knew that our skin—nearly diaphanous and as fragile as pearl—was not meant to endure scorching rays like those of other lineages. Here, the weather mirrored the bearers of our lineage: warm, as tender as a caress, and possessed of a purity difficult to explain—I knew it.

I placed my hand in his with a smile. His gloves prevented our skin from touching, yet I felt a real shiver trace my spine. I found it beautiful—to see how large his hand was compared to mine, for in that simple contrast, I felt safer still. It would be that hand that would cherish me; that hand that would caress me; that hand that would support me; that hand that would defend me. I was fortunate.

Then, standing at his side, my fingers slid over his bicep, and I clung to it as his steps guided us through the garden. Before us stretched a forest of cedar and fig trees, sprawling across a vast expanse carpeted in white, bluish, and mauve flowers—pale hues: lilies, anemones, ranunculus, squills, grape hyacinths, and archangelica. All those floral beauties that Simon himself had sown over the years.

Patriarch Seriel then began to recite his favorite poem, and I listened intently, my gaze lifted toward him and his mane of thick amber curls.

“Sometimes, when all sleeps, I sit filled with delight
Beneath the starry dome that blazes above our brows;
I listen, wondering if some sound falls from on high;
And time, in vain, strikes me with its wing
As I contemplate, moved, that eternal festival
Which the radiant sky grants the world at night.

Often then I have believed that those flaming suns
In this sleeping world warmed only my soul;
That to understand them alone I was destined;
That I was, I—vain, obscure, and taciturn shadow—
The mysterious king of nocturnal splendor;
That the heavens had illuminated themselves for me alone!”

Our steps followed a path guided by our hearts. I remained suspended from his lips while the world itself seemed to fall silent to listen, so beautiful was his talent for breathing life into those verses—enough to freeze anyone, anything, at any moment. Patriarch Seriel scarcely looked at me as he spoke. His amber gaze wandered the garden, carrying the air of an awakening after centuries of sleep.

Once again, his voice had been no stronger than the wind brushing flowers and grass, yet each line fell with the weight of the importance that poem clearly held for him. And I felt honored, enchanted, for I alone was witness to it.

"This poem is magnificent," I breathed.

"Do you like poetry?"

I swallowed, embarrassed. I wished so dearly to be to his liking in every possible way.

"I have, unfortunately, never taken an interest in it. But through you, I am discovering the beauty of what it can be."

He nodded, turning his gaze once more toward the garden. And truthfully, I had no idea what he thought of me. It gnawed at me with quiet anxiety. His body betrayed no emotion whatsoever. One of his hands rested on his abdomen while I held onto his arm as we walked, and I felt no disturbance from him—no trace of any feeling at all. I had not even seen him smile yet. I feared I might not be enough, and yet… he had chosen, hadn’t he? He had decided to keep me. I was his bearer. We were going to form a household.

"Silence is a language."

I looked at him, unsettled. Why did he repeat that? His gaze lowered, and I followed it instinctively. That was when I saw my fingers, clenched tightly around his arm, creasing the pristine fabric of his beautiful suit. I immediately withdrew my hand and brought it back to myself. After a brief moment, I laid it upon my thigh and bowed, offering him my nape, though it was covered by my veil and my hair. How foolish I could be…

I trembled when the Patriarch’s large hand slipped beneath my throat. The leather of his gloves was almost too cold against my pale skin. With a gentle pressure, he invited me to straighten, and I obeyed, ashamed of my behavior. I wanted to be perfect—to never err. I scarcely dared lift my eyes to face him. He had not touched my nape. Had he denied me forgiveness? Then why did his fingers caress my cheeks and my throat with such tenderness?

My mouth dry, I apologized.

"Please forgive my manners, Patriarch Seriel. I allowed my thoughts to carry me away. They are sometimes… intrusive."

"Does my presence make you anxious?"

I lifted my face at once, for his voice had been softer than anything he had allowed me to hear until now. I had searched for courage in many ways over the past years, but none of them felt as natural as drawing it from the amber gaze before me.

"May I be honest with you, Patriarch Seriel?"

"Of course. Honesty is a cornerstone—not only of any stable Society, but of a household worthy of its name. From now on, Enoch, I will expect nothing less than complete transparency from you, at all times."

"Very well, then…"

I hesitated for a few seconds before finally plunging in.

"I am young, and even though I strive to be as perfect a bearer as Simon is, I know that I am still, at times, clumsy."

I sometimes let myself be carried away by my emotions, to the point of forgetting proper conduct. Simon never did that, and I admired him for it.

"However, I am still pure in body and in mind, I assure you, and I am overflowing with goodwill. So I wished to thank you from the bottom of my heart for choosing me. I will endeavor to honor this role."

His touch beneath my chin tickled me with the same gentleness as sunlight brushing my face. Bathed in the warmth of the daystar, I hoped I might be pleasant to behold for the Patriarch. And for a few precious seconds, we shared a single, common silence, our gazes sinking into one another. I knew then how happy I would be at his side—and how unfounded Abel’s fears had been.

I was… relieved.