Sixth day of September, in the year 2556, aboard the Seriel airship.

"Beneath the veil of shadow and honey, sleep, sweet fruit of faithful blood. Your breath is a gift, your heart is law—you are light, you are my voice. White silence, silken sleep, no sorrow, no sin, no cross. I watch with God, sweet Caiaphas loves, and in your arms, I become myself again," I hummed.

My heart lay in pieces. I sank into the wide bath, like an oasis, tiled in ochre and glowing red mosaics. I let my tears fall here, because submerged in the water, I could neither see nor feel them. Each one cut into my pale flesh like a blade—sharp, unbearable blades I could not endure. I had retreated to my room as soon as I could and had not left since, even missing the midday meal despite Enoch’s pleas at my door.

I hadn’t cared. His naivety had worn down both my patience and my strength. I didn’t know how to tell him what awaited him, all the horrors he would face. I didn’t know how to tell him that waking nightmares would greet him every night. And did I even have the right? Simon had been happy, and many other bearers were too. Many found solace in it, though I could not understand how. Simon’s cries had always been softer than mine—less sharp, less fearful, less filled with horror.

I still heard mine every night before sleep. They echoed endlessly, finding no home but my own ears. They had haunted me for eight years. And now, I was almost being asked to witness that same nightmare for my younger brother. Of course it filled me with an indescribable terror; of course I wanted to cry until I dissolved into the warm water surrounding me. All I wanted was for Enoch… to suffer less than I had. To suffer only as Simon had—something he could endure…

But I had meant it when I told him I would come if he screamed my name. My life had lost all taste. The only light that remained was Caiaphas—and that too would be taken from me. I knew how this would unfold: they would parade me like a spectacle during The Haulieux Season, then hand me over to another seeder. They would promise me he was “less cruel” than the last, and I would relive those nightmares the moment the chamber door closed.

Simon always said that devil had been the worst of them all, but that others—like Saul—made good seeders. It changed nothing of the torment we bearers endured once the doors shut. I wanted none of it anymore. But if I was to be forced into it again, then I would rather die saving Enoch from that hell. I was, in any case, destined never to see my little light again—my dear Caiaphas.

And it shattered me.

I remembered his tears, the countless times he had asked why I was leaving too. The truth was, I had never told him I would come back. I wasn’t sure I would. He deserved at least that honesty, because I loved him. The mere thought of him was enough to make me smile, to soothe the pain of my stigmas. He was too precious for lies—too precious for false hope, because I knew better than anyone how dangerous hope could be.

I surfaced for air, drawing in a deep breath. I wiped the water from my face and pushed my hair back. The warmth surrounding my body felt incredible. I could feel my muscles slowly relaxing. I didn’t regret spending the day in my room, but I didn’t regret leaving it for this bath either.

I opened my eyes after clearing them—and my heart nearly leapt from my chest when I saw the Patriarch, standing there, a towel wrapped around his hips.

I straightened abruptly, as if burned alive, bringing my hands up to shield my body.

"I didn’t see you," he said in justification.

I shook my head, as if I were foolish enough to believe him. I was already preparing to stand and leave at once, searching for my towel, when I heard the water stir on his side. I froze, casting him a wary glance.

The heat of the bath suddenly felt suffocating, while on him it clung to his skin, making it glisten. The Patriarch said nothing. He stepped into the water—first one foot, then his entire leg—with a slowness that belonged only to those who knew they were being watched; a deliberate slowness, meant to be admired. The beige towel slipped from his hips and fell with a barely audible whisper onto the edge of the vast square bath.

I tried to look away, burned by the sight—but too late. His second leg followed, pale, almost luminous in the misted warmth, as though dusted with gold like the rest of his flesh. His thighs flexed with the movement, every muscle beneath his skin playing its cruel beauty upon my senses despite myself.

Patriarch Seriel lowered himself into the water until it reached his chest.

Water slid over his torso with unreal precision—valleys and lines carved by a patient sculptor, each contour adorned with golden glints. His long hair, gathered into a high tail, lent his posture something regal—more so even than when his cascade of gold fell freely over his strong shoulders. And his eyes… his golden eyes seemed to cut through the steam, blazing fiercely within the haze.

There was no question of yielding to that gaze. If I was forced to admit that the Patriarch was a beautiful man, I was nonetheless aware of the poison he carried. Yet the more I tried to shield myself from his stare, the deeper it sank into me, like a foreign warmth I could neither name nor repel. So I shook my head, brows drawn tight, disgust rising in my throat, and I tore my gaze away from his.

"Stop that."

"You should be more specific," he murmured.

Despite myself, I met his eyes again. My fists clenched. Something growled within my chest.

"I thought I had made myself clear: you will form a household with my brother. Tonight, you will share your first night with him—so why, in God’s name, do you insist on looking at me like that?"

"What look?"

I lifted my chin, daring him to repeat it, as though I were mad—as though I imagined things. While my voice lost its calm, his only sank deeper into serenity, and that irritated me all the more.

"You are not the first, and you will never be the last to look at me that way. You desire your bearer’s brother. It is repulsive. You should be a model of virtue for the Society."

To insult a Patriarch… I must have been mad. Or simply at the end of myself. He looked away for a brief moment.

"You are right. I have sinned without cease since our first meeting, for beneath my skin burns a fire that none but you could soothe. I do not know by what art I might free myself from this desire, for I can neither embrace it nor bury it in oblivion."

The bath had become suffocating. The heat made it impossible to breathe properly. I turned my head, searching for air, in vain.

"Stop," I repeated. "I want none of this. You are placing me in a most unpleasant position. My brother truly cares for you."

"If such a thing were within my power, I would have done it, Abel. I am no monster. I would never wish to harm Enoch. But what you have awakened in me—I am its slave."

I straightened. I had heard enough. I tried to leave the bath, breath unsteady, when a sudden dizziness stole my balance. The world spun, then stilled—and I found myself pressed against something warmer still than the water.

I was not foolish. I understood what had kept me from falling back into the bath, yet I did not dare look. All he had to do was hold me there, silence me, and I would be forced to endure his desires. I shut my eyes fiercely. I didn’t want this—but my body was frozen.

He had already sinned—he had admitted it. So he could sin again, and—

Suddenly, I felt my body lifted, and before panic could drive me to bite my tongue bloody, I found myself seated on the edge of the bath. I opened my eyes and met the Patriarch’s gaze once more. He had stepped back, returning to where he had been. My chest heaved uncontrollably as I seized my towel and wrapped it around myself.

"I fear I expressed myself poorly. Forgive me. I am indeed its slave—but not to the point of forcing it upon you. I am no monster, though I must have given you a very poor impression of myself."

I did not seek to understand or hear more. With the towel secured at my waist, I fled. I pulled on my still-damp night robe, which I had carefully left near the entrance, before rushing into the corridor. Thank God, my room was not far. I hurried inside and locked the door behind me. Then I slid down against it, my body trembling.

My fingers, still unsteady, brushed my chest. The damp fabric clung to my skin, each thread sending an unpleasant shiver through me. Every breath pressed the cloth tighter against me, until it burned. Somehow, I dragged myself to the bed, seeking rest. My gaze drifted to the vast windows surrounding me. Outside, the night sky was strewn with countless shining stars.

But as I lay amid those sheets, scented with something exotic, another fire stirred—another heat.

The warmth rising between my legs made me jolt. I clenched the sheets in my fingers, breath short. My body reacted despite myself, my lower abdomen tightening, warming beneath the damp fabric—and I did not understand why. It had happened before, rarely, discreetly—but how could I ever speak of it to anyone?

A quiet panic gripped me: I had never felt it this strongly, and I had no idea how to make it stop.

I turned my head away from that painful vision and from my memories. I looked up at the firmament, trying to escape the image of Seriel—of his luminous legs, almost dusted with gold, moving endlessly in my mind. Every detail unsettled me further, my heart racing wildly, shivers running along my spine and the nape of my neck. And then, as the ache in my body intensified, I thought of Enoch. It was night. Soon, once Seriel was with him, the two of them would surrender to what I feared most—to all that violence.

Enoch, so gentle, so innocent… and what awaited him in that room… I thought I might be sick. I curled into myself as my body slowly returned to normal, though I did not understand what had happened. As always, it had faded on its own.

The sky… was beautiful.

I had always loved it. I still did, even as I could not stop thinking of the devil who had destroyed me, and that grotesque painting that mimicked the ceiling of his chamber. I remembered it as though it were yesterday: that deep green, like a forest swallowed by shadow, with silver stars scattered here and there. All those times when that devil’s violence struck both my body and my mind, I had clung to it, because that painting had been the only escape I had from that hell.

I loved the sky, even though it reminded me of all of it, because it was the last thing that proved I was still here—on earth, not in hell. And if Satan, that fallen angel of light, was toying with me again, then I would rather remain in denial. Without Caiaphas, all I had left was the sky—insufficient to give me the will to live without him, but enough, in memory, to keep me holding on just a little longer.

No poem I had ever read had truly captured its beauty, but I remembered one—from a nineteenth-century poet:

"Sometimes, when all sleeps, I sit in quiet delight
Beneath the starry dome blazing above our heads;
I listen, wondering if some distant sound might fall from on high;
And time beats its wings in vain
While I gaze, moved, upon that eternal celebration
The radiant sky bestows upon the world at night.

Often then I have believed those burning suns
Warmed only my soul in this sleeping world;
That I alone was destined to understand them;
That I was, I—a vain, obscure, and silent shadow—
The mysterious king of the nocturnal splendor;
That the heavens had been lit for me alone."

If my life had been different—if I had been given a choice—I would have wanted to share this with Caiaphas and Ellie; to stand beneath that starry dome in some distant place, where the sky would shine for us alone.

I could not pray to God for death. The Codex of Virtues condemned suicide. But if not God… perhaps the stars—those burning suns—might be merciful enough to set my soul aflame and consume me. Perhaps then, I—vain, obscure, and silent shadow—might finally find peace.