The rain did not fall—it unravelled. It was a grey wool smothering the world, a ceaseless, drumming roar that erased the horizon. The gentle canals of Ur became furious brown rivers, swallowing the lower huts. The people, guided by Enki's final, hollow commands, fled in a chaotic, desperate exodus towards the eastern hills, clutching children and seed-sacks.
Lulal stood on his hill, his victory a sodden, meaningless joke. His camp was a quagmire, his followers wailing as their shelters collapsed. Gilgamesh, for the first time, looked not restless, but unnerved. This was a force he could not punch or wrestle.
"This is just a storm!" Lulal shouted into the wind, but the wind did not answer. It only grew stronger, tearing the banner of his defiance from its pole and whipping it away into the grey.
He saw the last of Ur's citizens fleeing, a ragged line of ants. He saw no sign of Enki. The totality of his master's surrender was finally, terrifyingly clear. Enki hadn't just given up the fight; he had given up on them.