The summons did not come that day, or the next. Enki used the time. He walked the inner courtyards, his gaze tracing the lines of the architecture. He saw the genius, the terrifying, lonely beauty of it. But he also listened for the echoes.
He found Lulal in a small scriptorium, bent over a tablet, transcribing lists of grain allocations. The young man's shoulders were tense.
"He has you counting seeds," Enki observed.
"It is the work of the city," Lulal said, not looking up. "Every measure must be accounted for. It is the foundation of order."
"Order for what purpose?" Enki asked softly. He placed a hand on a nearby pillar. "Listen."
Lulal frowned. "I hear nothing."
"Exactly." Enki ran his fingers over the joint between two bricks. "The stone does not sing here. The mortar does not have a voice. In a living structure, there is a conversation—a subtle give and take, a settlement, a hum of forces in balance. This..." he tapped the pillar, and the sound was dead, flat, "...this is a monologue. It is the sound of a single will, imposed. It cannot last."
Lulal looked from the dead pillar to Enki's living eyes. He had spent his life learning to build things that would never break. Enki was telling him that the very act of making them unbreakable was what would doom them. It was a heresy that felt like truth.
"He will not understand that," Lulal whispered.
"He does not have to," Enki said. "But you must."