Six summers had passed since the foundation stone was laid. Ur was no longer a promise, but a vibrant, adolescent city. The "E-Abzu" complex was the bustling, administrative heart, its granaries full, its workshops humming. The waterwheel's rhythm was the city's steady pulse. The written script, born from Enki's mind and Lulal's hand, was now used to record harvests, laws, and trades, giving the city a memory of its own.
Amidst Ur's prosperous markets, Enki and Lulal witnessed a farmer confront the merchant Ea-Nasir over a shipment of brittle, useless copper.
"This is not what you promised!" the farmer pleaded, his livelihood threatened.
Ea-Nasir pointed indifferently to a shelf of complaint tablets. "The agreement is binding. File a petition."
Defeated by the cold bureaucracy, the farmer walked away, his faith eroded.
"A dishonest merchant," Lulal declared. "We need a new law."
Enki watched Ea-Nasir meticulously record the dispute. "No, Lulal. Look deeper. He is not selling bad copper; he is selling broken trust. We can write a thousand laws, but we cannot legislate a heart. This corrosion seeps into a society's foundation, one bad faith deal at a time. The cage he builds is among the most difficult to break."
It was a lesson Lulal would remember.
Watching Lulal absorb the lesson, Enki felt the familiar weight. For the people, he was their unchanging, quiet guardian. But to Enki, the years were a blur of frantic, purposeful growth. He saw the children of the original villagers growing tall, their lives a swift, bright flame next to his own slow-burning candle.
Lulal, now a man in his prime, had become the city's brilliant, driven architect and chancellor. He wore his authority with a confidence that sometimes bordered on arrogance, his faith in his master absolute. That faith was a pillar of the new city. And it was about to be shattered.