That night, Enki did not look at his Scrapbook of Grace. He looked towards Lulal's camp, the fires of the disillusioned burning like angry stars.
Lulal was right. He was a scribe. And his most poignant entry was being written not in acts of love, but in the furious, destructive grief of the one person he had loved most as a son.
The dilemma was no longer about saving lives. It was about saving a soul. And Enki had no tools for that. The Ikannuna had given him immortality and knowledge, but no answer for how to mend a heart broken by the cosmic machinery they had built.
He had to win this war without fighting. He had to prove Lulal wrong not with words he couldn't speak, but with a truth deeper than the one that had shattered him. He had to show that the garden was not a lie, but the only possible answer to a universe of indifferent laws. The weight of being the Witness had never been heavier. It was the weight of a father's heart, breaking in silence.