February to March — Devgarh & Nandanpur
Board Exam Season • Time Accelerates
Time stopped being poetic.
It became practical.
Dates circled in red.
Admit cards.
Syllabus checklists taped to walls.
The school year shifted gears—hard acceleration, no looking back.
Two Boards. One House. Zero Margin for Error
Class 12th for Abhay and Ishanvi.
Class 10th for Raghav and Vaidehi.
Pressure multiplied.
Morning rides to Devgarh were quieter now. No chatter, no playlists—just engines and breath fogging visors. Even the Sudarshini felt distant, restrained, as if respecting the academic crunch.
"Finish this year," Abhay muttered once. "Then we deal with everything else."
Ishanvi agreed. For now.
Nights blurred into early mornings.
Abhay revised physics formulas while Aariv slept with his head on the same table.
Ishanvi solved chemistry numericals while Meera highlighted biology diagrams with intense focus.
Raghav took charge quietly—making schedules, forcing breaks, reminding everyone to eat.
Vaidehi taped motivational quotes on the wall like battle flags.
Grief didn't disappear.
It got managed.
Something strange happened.
Their powers… dimmed.
Not gone. Not broken.
Just dormant—like nature itself had signed a temporary ceasefire agreement.
Fire stayed warm, not wild.
Water stayed calm, not restless.
Almost as if the world said: Finish your exams first.
Abhay noticed it.
Ishanvi felt it.
Neither questioned it.
February ended.
March arrived like a verdict.
First exam day.
White uniforms. Blue pens. Silent corridors. Teachers wishing luck with unusually gentle voices.
Before entering the hall, Abhay leaned closer to Ishanvi.
"No matter what," he said, low and steady, "we finish this together."
She nodded. "One paper at a time."
In another wing, Raghav squeezed Vaidehi's hand.
"We've handled worse," he said. "This is just paper."
She smiled shakily. "With marks."
Exams came and went.
Maths. Physics. History. Chemistry.
Stress headaches. Late-night tea. Forgotten formulas remembered at the last second.
Some papers went well. Some didn't.
Life moved anyway.
By mid-March, it was over.
No fireworks.
Just exhaustion.
Results would come later.
Consequences later.
For now, the school year closed its chapter.
On the ride home after the final exam, Abhay slowed his scooter near the river.
The Sudarshini shimmered—quiet, patient.
Waiting.
As if saying: You're done running. When you're ready, we'll talk.
Some years test your mind.
Others test your heart.
This one tested both—and still let them pass.