From the desolate gates of Kutta, I tread the dust-laden path to Ur, forsaking the city that cradled me in the embrace of its twilight. Nights of whispered omens and visions had held me captive, yet I could not linger. The final eve was woven in enchantment so thick, I forgot the very reason for my coming. The dying sun cast its spell upon me, its glimmering descent upon ziggurats and colossi of nameless gods, the flight of a thousand birds heralding the return of the night. I drank a broth so rich, it might have rivaled the feasts of Babylon and Assur.

At dawn, I urged my beast forward, my humble caravan creaking beneath the burden of my departure. The walls of Kutta, devoted to Nergal, loomed behind me. As I turned for one last gaze, memory struck, one of my tablets lay forgotten in the house of the oracles. Yet fortune had not abandoned me; I bore in my mind the name and dwelling of one whom I would seek upon my arrival in Ur.

Taking pause, I watered my beasts, slit the throat of a fowl gifted by a merchant, and with its crimson tide, etched my thoughts onto Egyptian papyrus with the feather of a peacock. I lacked the means to carve a new tablet, but blood and ink must serve. The sun climbed in fury, and so I yielded to slumber beneath the wane shadow of a dying palm, waiting for Shamash to temper his wrath.

When I rose, the road had changed.

Three omens marked my path.

The first: a man clad in linen black as the void, his eyes sealed shut with golden wax. He whispered riddles in the tongue of the dead and held forth an urn of lapis lazuli, bidding me to drink. I did not, and he melted into the dunes, his form dissolving into a murder of crows that shrieked my name.

The second: a river that ran red not with the rust of earth, but with blood. From its depths, a serpent with the face of a woman emerged, her mouth filled with the names of lost kings. She called me by title I did not own, beckoning me to enter the flood. I cast a handful of salt into the current and passed in silence.

The third: a temple in ruin, yet its altar fresh with offerings. Priests, eyeless and clad in robes of ash, stood in vigil over a figure anointed with oils, veiled in dusk. As I stepped forward, she turned, and her voice was as the lament of shattered kingdoms.

She called herself Nunnamshipal.

A queen without a throne, a wife without a king, a commander bereft of her host. Her land sundered by the spears of Hittite warbands, her palace reduced to embers, her name soon to be but a whisper on the wind. She clutched at my hand, her fingers adorned with gold and lapis, pressing baubles of untold worth upon me. ‘Take me with you,’ she pleaded. ‘The road is cruel to those without banners. I will not survive it alone.’

Yet I refused, though not without sorrow. What use was wealth if it carried the weight of lost kingdoms?

As the sun waned, I drew near the gates of Ur. The heavens were drenched in violet and gold, the stones of Etemenanki veiled in smoke that coiled like the breath of ancient rites. A ritual was unfolding; the air hummed with murmured incantations. The scent of al-oud and burning bakhour wove through the streets, thick as a lover’s embrace, guiding me toward fate unseen.

A shadow moved in the perfumed air, a figure draped in the skins of jackals, eyes burning with an unnatural glow. He bore a staff crowned with the skull of an infant, and his voice was a hiss of wind through cracked tombs. ‘You come to Ur seeking knowledge, yet knowledge has a price,’ he whispered. ‘Would you dare to pay it?’

I hesitated, but before I could answer, a band of spectral warriors emerged from the smoke, shrouded in mist, their armor etched with the names of those long perished. They formed a path before me, leading to the gates of the city, their silent march an invitation or a warning.

From behind, I felt Nunnamshipal’s gaze still upon me, her presence lingering like the shadow of a forgotten god. And so, with the weight of omens pressing upon my soul, I stepped forth into Ur; the city of the gods and the damned.