📅 October 1 – Devgarh & Nandanpur
The Goddess's Night
The ninth night arrived with more than dhol and diyas. Temples glowed brighter, drums echoed louder, and even the rain seemed to pause for the evening. In Devgarh, families crowded into pandals, offering coconuts and red chunris.
In Nandanpur, Sunita tied a fresh thread around the family shrine, whispering prayers for safety. But as the incense smoke curled upward, Ishanvi felt it tighten around her like a coil.
The flame in the diya bowed to her breath — and then flared, tall and golden, as if answering her heartbeat. Vrinda gasped. Ishanvi snuffed it out quickly, her chest pounding.
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The River Breaks
That same night, Sudarshini rose higher than it had all month. Farmers rushed with lanterns, shouting warnings, tying sandbags. But the river didn't just overflow — it surged, like something alive had shaken free beneath.
Abhay ran to the banks, his feet splashing through mud. Water leapt at him, wrapping his wrist again in the shape of the bracelet. Only this time, it didn't vanish. It hardened — a solid band of liquid crystal, glowing faintly blue.
His eyes widened. He tugged, but it clung tighter, pulsing with the rhythm of the river itself.
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The Shock
On the bridge between Nandanpur and Devgarh, lightning split the sky. Ishanvi and Abhay saw each other at once — drawn by the storm, the drums, and something neither could name.
Before either could speak, the impossible happened.
The bracelet on Abhay's wrist burst into a spray of droplets, each hovering in midair like glass beads. At the same moment, fire streaked from Ishanvi's palm, a thin ribbon of heat dancing in the rain.
Water and fire touched — not cancelling, not fighting — but twining together into a single, blinding spiral of steam and light.
The bridge shook. The river roared louder than the drums of Navratri.
They staggered back, eyes wide. For the first time, both of them whispered the same word, trembling:
"What are we?"
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Unseen Eyes
From the edge of the crowd, Simran watched, her dupatta plastered to her face in the drizzle. Her notebook slipped from her hand, pages smearing in the mud.
This wasn't whispers anymore. This was proof.
And in her chest, fear twisted into something sharper: choice.