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

I had picked the white figs at dawn, while the dew still clung to the barely awakened leaves. The Patriarchs had not yet arrived, and I had been able to wander through the gardens before they became occupied. The fruits were full, swollen with light and flavor, their skin so pale one might have thought the veins of the figs visible beneath it. In the silent kitchen—everyone busy elsewhere—I baked. Today, I took pleasure in it, for I knew myself alone and at peace.

Enoch and Patriarch Seriel were speaking together in the gardens, sipping an angelica infusion Simon had prepared the day before. Saul was in discussion with our lineage Patriarch in his study and, since morning, the two men had not left it. Simon and Caiaphas were tending to the gathered fruit outside, crushing it to make preserves and juices. There was only me here; me and my memories. Beneath my half-closed eyelids, as I kneaded the dough, I recalled the gentle moments spent with Simon, when he taught Elie and me how to cook.

I had lost this taste for it over those eight years, but today, the opportunity had returned. The empty kitchen and the calm of the household had called to me, inviting me to let go. The past days had been particularly trying, between nightmares and fears. I needed this suspended moment of quiet before agitation resumed its course and life reclaimed its rhythm. Frozen within this pocket of silence, I savored it.

Beneath my fingers, the dough became a shroud of almond. I did not like heavy sweets, unlike Enoch. I preferred light, airy pastries, whose flavor teased the tongue without ever overwhelming it. I adored tarts. I crushed almond blossoms between my palms, releasing a discreet, almost celestial fragrance. Nothing overpowering, nothing dizzying—just a gentle scent that soothed the heart.

Then I arranged the pre-cut figs into a perfect circle, their hearts turned toward the sky, and dusted the edges with a fine white powder—flower dust, in truth. The tart was good, and its simplicity always drew me in. I loved this moment. In that instant, I was neither bearer, nor brother, nor fruit. I was simply someone, on a sunlit afternoon, preparing a pale fig-and-flower tart.

And I smiled, just for myself.

At least, I thought I did.

I startled when a presence weighed against my back. There was no contact, yet the sweet scent of helianthe set my senses on edge, and I turned, hands gripping the kitchen counter.

"Is there anything the Domiels do not do better than others, or do they excel in every field?"

Patriarch Seriel stood there, in the midst of the calm and peace I had created.

His eyes—incandescent gold—did not waver from me. They scrutinized me, pierced through me, imprisoned me, stole my breath away. He no longer spoke, and I wondered if I had imagined his words. He did not move, like a painting—a devilishly beautiful one. Between us lay three steps, perhaps, yet I sensed more than that: a tension that knotted my stomach to the point of nausea, a burning distance that tormented my senses and my fears alike.

My hands, coated in dough, flour, and every ingredient I had worked, fell to my apron. I rubbed my stomach as I wiped them, vainly attempting to soothe the rising anxiety that pinned me in place.

"I'm not sure I understand your words," I admitted in a weak voice.

He did not answer. He watched me like a beast watches its prey, without scruple. For I knew only that—the torment of being hunted by something stronger than oneself. So I did what I did best. I turned away, barely concealing my trembling, and acted as though nothing were amiss. I should not have been allowed to turn my back on a Patriarch, not without permission, but it was that or risk collapsing to the floor. I focused again on my tart, adjusting the final details.

"I care little for red meats, powerful wines, or dishes heavy on the palate—but the Domiels prepare none of that. You are beings of refreshing simplicity."

I inhaled as deeply as I could, as discreetly as I dared, while behind me I heard three steps. Patriarch Seriel was there—right there, beside me. I could feel his scent overturn my heart.

"It is an honor you grant our household," I murmured.

A sound rolled in his throat as I felt him draw closer. In less than a second, his shoulder brushed mine, and his blond curls grazed my cheek, my ear, my shoulder, my throat. His hair was soft—proof of careful tending—but the proximity made me deeply uneasy.

"What are you cooking?"

I frowned, unsettled. Why did he address me so formally? I was only a bearer.

"A white fig tart with almond blossoms."

He inhaled deeply, and for the brief instant in which my body froze, I wondered whether it was truly the tart he had scented so intently. Flustered and nauseous, I stepped aside, pretending I needed to place the tart in the oven. Once done, I scanned the kitchen for a task to flee into. When I found one, my gaze latched onto it—but before I could reach the dishes, Patriarch Seriel was already there. He removed his gloves, and his hands took hold of the utensils to wash them.

A horrified gasp escaped me as I rushed toward him to stop it. This was in no way the role of a Patriarch! What would Saul think if he saw this? Or Patriarch Domiel? Or even Simon and Enoch!

"By all the Martyrs, stop this!" I cried in horror.

I tore the knife from his hands, and before I could understand my mistake, a scarlet drop stained the bottom of the sink. I froze. My breath caught in my throat. My chest rose in panic, my vision blurred, and I staggered backward, my legs giving way. I tried, uselessly, to inhale, to exhale, to breathe—to regain control. In the sink, drops of blood continued to bead from the Patriarch’s finger, and dizziness overtook me. The floor began to tremble, to ripple beneath my eyes, and I collapsed onto it.

"Abel."

The world darkened around me, and I desperately tried to cling to consciousness, to keep from making things worse.

"Abel, stay with me. Breathe deeply."

I heard him. I was not deaf. I heard him—but I could not obey. My stomach ached, my heart burned, and suddenly, a hand pressed against my face.

And I knew I was back… back in those blood-soaked sheets, his body above mine, his cruelty and my pain. My body locked, seized by terror, as I felt his weight and his malice against my face. I dissolved into sobs, convulsed by the spasms wracking my heart, my cheeks flooded with tears. I knew that fighting back would only make things worse—that I could only endure, despite the cruelty, despite the fear twisting my guts. I wanted to scream, but his hand smothered me even more.

"Abel, do not let the nightmares swallow you."

Something warm radiated against my back, and I turned my head sharply, trying to break free from the devil’s grip, to flee the bloodied sheets—and I thought I was falling into the sun, so comforting was that warmth. I could see nothing. My eyes were clouded with endless tears, but I caught a scent—sweet, intoxicating; familiar. I clung to it to steady myself, to find my way back. Beneath my fingers, an unfamiliar softness slid into my grasp. I let the pads of my fingers explore it.

"That’s it. Gently."

I inhaled again, deeply. I thought I heard echoes of the devil’s furious screams—the one who had caused me so much pain—but they were only echoes. A lower voice resonated near my ear, chasing away my tears. When my vision finally cleared, my nose still sniffling, I saw in my hands an exotic flower, unlike any that grew here, with twilight-hued petals—and suddenly, I recognized it.

An infertile barbadine flower. A helianthe. Patriarch Seriel’s flower.

At last, my feet returned to solid ground.

I slowly lifted my head. My body was held in Patriarch Seriel’s arms. His face was only a breath away from mine, his golden gaze locked onto my own. Instinctively, my palm pressed against his chest to prevent any movement. I knew that look. I had seen it dozens of times before. The devil himself had looked at me like that before his atrocities.

It disgusted me.

I shoved him away violently, breaking free from his arms, fully aware that my behavior was condemnable in countless ways.

"Abel—"

"You are Seriel VIII," I cut in sharply, "and you are here, in Saul and Simon’s household, to take my younger brother, Enoch, with you in order to form a household with him."

That gaze… that behavior… that feeling… none of it had any right to exist. It was inappropriate.

"Abel, we must speak."

I startled when Saul suddenly entered, asking after me.