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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Contests
- Published: 03/02/2026
Ostara Rising
Born 1951, M, from Elliot Lake, Ontario., Canada.jpeg)
The Ostara Rising
Non AI
A mystical tale of Shabaun, Sherella
and the
Coven of the Verdant Veil
The thaw came late that year.
Winter had clung to the northern valley like a jealous spirit, refusing to loosen its grip even as the sun climbed higher each morning. Snow still clung to the roots of the birches, and the lake wore a thin, stubborn crust of ice. Yet beneath it all, something stirred, something ancient, patient, and ready.
Shabaun felt it first.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her boots sinking into the softening earth, and closed her eyes. The air hummed. Not with sound, but with presence. A pulsing whisper that promised.
“Ostara is waking,” she murmured.
Sherella stepped beside her, her cloak brushing Shabaun’s. “Aye. And she’s restless.”
The two leaders of the Verdant Veil Coven exchanged a look, one part excitement, one part concern. For Ostara was not merely a celebration of spring for them. It was a threshold. A moment when the veil between the sleeping earth and the waking world thinned enough for magic to spill through like dawn light.
And this year, something more was coming with it.
The Gathering of the Thirteen
By twilight, the coven had assembled.
Thirteen witches, each carrying a lantern lit with a different colour flame, emerald, rose, gold, indigo, and hues that had no name in any mortal tongue. They formed a circle around the ancient stone altar at the heart of the clearing.
Shabaun raised her lantern first. Its flame burned a deep forest green, swirling like leaves caught in a wind only she could feel.
“Tonight,” she said, “we honour the turning of the wheel. Tonight, we welcome the Maiden’s return.”
Sherella lifted her own lantern, its flame a shimmering silver-white. “And tonight,” she added, “we answer the call that has stirred beneath the snow.”
A murmur rippled through the coven. They had all felt it, an undercurrent of magic stronger than any Ostara in living memory. Something old. Something roving; searching.
The youngest witch, Quira, stepped forward. “High Priestesses… is it true? Is the Seed waking?”
Shabaun hesitated. Sherella did not.
“Yes.”
A collective breath caught in the air.
The Seed was legend, an ancient spark of earth-magic said to bloom only once every thousand years. It was neither plant nor spirit, neither relic nor creature. It was possibility itself. And if awakened properly, it could bless the land with a century of abundance.
If awakened improperly… well. No one spoke of that.
The First Sign
The ritual began with song.
Not words, but tones, long, rising notes that vibrated through the clearing like the breath of the world itself. The lantern flames swayed in unison, bending toward the altar as if drawn by an unseen tide.
Sherella knelt and pressed her palm to the stone. Frost melted beneath her touch.
“It’s close,” she whispered.
Shabaun joined her, placing her hand beside Sherella’s. The stone warmed. Then pulsed.
A crack split the earth at their feet.
The coven gasped as a faint glow seeped upward from the fissure, soft, golden, like the first light of dawn. The Seed was waking.
But the glow flickered.
Dimmed.
Brightened again.
Sherella’s eyes narrowed. “It’s unstable.”
Shabaun rose to her feet. “The winter held too long. The balance is off.”
The Seed needed harmony, equal parts light and dark, warmth and cold, hope and caution. But the long winter had tipped the scales.
If they did nothing, the Seed would wither before it ever bloomed.
The Choice
Shabaun turned to the coven. “We must restore the balance.”
“How?” asked Quira.
Sherella answered. “By giving it what the season could not.”
She looked at Shabaun, and in that glance lay a decision they had both feared.
“The Rite of Equinox,” Shabaun said quietly.
A ripple of unease passed through the circle.
The Rite was old. Dangerous. It required two witches to embody the dual forces of the equinox, light and shadow, and weave them together without losing themselves in the process. Many covens refused to attempt it.
But the Verdant Veil had no choice.
Sherella stepped forward. “I will take the Light.”
Shabaun nodded. “And I the Shadow.”
The coven bowed their heads in solemn acceptance.
The Rite Begins
The lanterns were placed in a wide ring around the altar, their flames rising higher as if sensing the gravity of what was to come.
Shabaun and Sherella stood opposite each other, hands outstretched, palms facing.
Sherella’s silver flame brightened, casting her in a soft radiance. Her breath shimmered in the air like mist touched by moonlight.
Shabaun’s green flame deepened into a dark, rich emerald. Shadows curled around her feet, gentle and cool, like the quiet of deep forests.
They began to chant.
Light and shadow spiraled from their palms, weaving together in a helix of shimmering energy. The air thickened. The earth trembled. The Seed’s glow brightened, responding to the harmony forming above it.
But then.....
A jolt and a resounding crackle.
The helix faltered.
Sherella staggered. “Too much light!”
Shabaun gritted her teeth. “Then let me take more shadow.”
“No!” Sherella’s voice strained. “You’ll lose yourself.”
The Rite demanded balance, but the imbalance of the season was fighting them. The Seed pulled hungrily at their magic, desperate for equilibrium.
The helix flickered again.
The coven cried out.
Quira stepped forward. “Let me help!”
“No!” Shabaun and Sherella said in unison.
The Rite allowed only two.
But the Seed… the Seed was calling to all of them.
The Turning Point
The ground split wider. Golden light surged upward, blinding and wild. The Seed was awakening too fast, too unevenly.
Sherella’s knees buckled.
Shabaun caught her with one arm, still channeling shadow with the other. “Stay with me!”
“I can not!” Sherella gasped. “The light is burning too bright.”
Shabaun made a choice.
She pulled Sherella close, pressing their foreheads together. “Then share it.”
Sherella’s eyes widened. “Shabaun!”
“Share it.”
The light from Sherella’s lantern poured into Shabaun’s shadow, and the shadow poured into Sherella’s light. Their magic intertwined, not as two forces in opposition, but as two halves of a single whole.
The helix stabilized, seed pulsed.
Then It bloomed.
The Blooming of the Seed
A column of golden light erupted from the fissure, rising into the sky like a newborn sun. The lantern flames flared in response, each colour weaving into the beam, rose, indigo, gold, emerald, silver, until the entire clearing glowed with a spectrum of living magic.
The coven shielded their eyes.
Shabaun and Sherella stood at the center of it all, hands clasped, their magic flowing in perfect harmony.
The light softened.
Lowered.
And from the heart of the fissure rose a small, delicate sprout, no larger than a child’s hand, yet glowing with the warmth of a thousand dawns.
The Seed had bloomed.
And the land would flourish for generations.
The Aftermath
When the light faded, the coven gathered around the sprout in reverent silence.
Quira knelt beside it. “It’s beautiful.”
Sherella smiled weakly. “It is life.”
Shabaun placed a hand on the young witch’s shoulder. “And it is ours to protect.”
The coven bowed their heads.
The Rite had taken its toll, Shabaun and Sherella were pale, exhausted, their magic drained to embers. But they stood tall, hands still clasped, united in purpose.
Sherella looked at Shabaun. “We did it.”
Shabaun squeezed her hand. “We did it together.”
The first true breeze of spring swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of thawing earth and new beginnings.
The coven lifted their lanterns.
And as the moon rose above the treetops, the Verdant Veil celebrated Ostara; not just as a turning of the wheel, but as the night they saved the balance of the world.
Non AI
A mystical tale of Shabaun, Sherella
and the
Coven of the Verdant Veil
The thaw came late that year.
Winter had clung to the northern valley like a jealous spirit, refusing to loosen its grip even as the sun climbed higher each morning. Snow still clung to the roots of the birches, and the lake wore a thin, stubborn crust of ice. Yet beneath it all, something stirred, something ancient, patient, and ready.
Shabaun felt it first.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, her boots sinking into the softening earth, and closed her eyes. The air hummed. Not with sound, but with presence. A pulsing whisper that promised.
“Ostara is waking,” she murmured.
Sherella stepped beside her, her cloak brushing Shabaun’s. “Aye. And she’s restless.”
The two leaders of the Verdant Veil Coven exchanged a look, one part excitement, one part concern. For Ostara was not merely a celebration of spring for them. It was a threshold. A moment when the veil between the sleeping earth and the waking world thinned enough for magic to spill through like dawn light.
And this year, something more was coming with it.
The Gathering of the Thirteen
By twilight, the coven had assembled.
Thirteen witches, each carrying a lantern lit with a different colour flame, emerald, rose, gold, indigo, and hues that had no name in any mortal tongue. They formed a circle around the ancient stone altar at the heart of the clearing.
Shabaun raised her lantern first. Its flame burned a deep forest green, swirling like leaves caught in a wind only she could feel.
“Tonight,” she said, “we honour the turning of the wheel. Tonight, we welcome the Maiden’s return.”
Sherella lifted her own lantern, its flame a shimmering silver-white. “And tonight,” she added, “we answer the call that has stirred beneath the snow.”
A murmur rippled through the coven. They had all felt it, an undercurrent of magic stronger than any Ostara in living memory. Something old. Something roving; searching.
The youngest witch, Quira, stepped forward. “High Priestesses… is it true? Is the Seed waking?”
Shabaun hesitated. Sherella did not.
“Yes.”
A collective breath caught in the air.
The Seed was legend, an ancient spark of earth-magic said to bloom only once every thousand years. It was neither plant nor spirit, neither relic nor creature. It was possibility itself. And if awakened properly, it could bless the land with a century of abundance.
If awakened improperly… well. No one spoke of that.
The First Sign
The ritual began with song.
Not words, but tones, long, rising notes that vibrated through the clearing like the breath of the world itself. The lantern flames swayed in unison, bending toward the altar as if drawn by an unseen tide.
Sherella knelt and pressed her palm to the stone. Frost melted beneath her touch.
“It’s close,” she whispered.
Shabaun joined her, placing her hand beside Sherella’s. The stone warmed. Then pulsed.
A crack split the earth at their feet.
The coven gasped as a faint glow seeped upward from the fissure, soft, golden, like the first light of dawn. The Seed was waking.
But the glow flickered.
Dimmed.
Brightened again.
Sherella’s eyes narrowed. “It’s unstable.”
Shabaun rose to her feet. “The winter held too long. The balance is off.”
The Seed needed harmony, equal parts light and dark, warmth and cold, hope and caution. But the long winter had tipped the scales.
If they did nothing, the Seed would wither before it ever bloomed.
The Choice
Shabaun turned to the coven. “We must restore the balance.”
“How?” asked Quira.
Sherella answered. “By giving it what the season could not.”
She looked at Shabaun, and in that glance lay a decision they had both feared.
“The Rite of Equinox,” Shabaun said quietly.
A ripple of unease passed through the circle.
The Rite was old. Dangerous. It required two witches to embody the dual forces of the equinox, light and shadow, and weave them together without losing themselves in the process. Many covens refused to attempt it.
But the Verdant Veil had no choice.
Sherella stepped forward. “I will take the Light.”
Shabaun nodded. “And I the Shadow.”
The coven bowed their heads in solemn acceptance.
The Rite Begins
The lanterns were placed in a wide ring around the altar, their flames rising higher as if sensing the gravity of what was to come.
Shabaun and Sherella stood opposite each other, hands outstretched, palms facing.
Sherella’s silver flame brightened, casting her in a soft radiance. Her breath shimmered in the air like mist touched by moonlight.
Shabaun’s green flame deepened into a dark, rich emerald. Shadows curled around her feet, gentle and cool, like the quiet of deep forests.
They began to chant.
Light and shadow spiraled from their palms, weaving together in a helix of shimmering energy. The air thickened. The earth trembled. The Seed’s glow brightened, responding to the harmony forming above it.
But then.....
A jolt and a resounding crackle.
The helix faltered.
Sherella staggered. “Too much light!”
Shabaun gritted her teeth. “Then let me take more shadow.”
“No!” Sherella’s voice strained. “You’ll lose yourself.”
The Rite demanded balance, but the imbalance of the season was fighting them. The Seed pulled hungrily at their magic, desperate for equilibrium.
The helix flickered again.
The coven cried out.
Quira stepped forward. “Let me help!”
“No!” Shabaun and Sherella said in unison.
The Rite allowed only two.
But the Seed… the Seed was calling to all of them.
The Turning Point
The ground split wider. Golden light surged upward, blinding and wild. The Seed was awakening too fast, too unevenly.
Sherella’s knees buckled.
Shabaun caught her with one arm, still channeling shadow with the other. “Stay with me!”
“I can not!” Sherella gasped. “The light is burning too bright.”
Shabaun made a choice.
She pulled Sherella close, pressing their foreheads together. “Then share it.”
Sherella’s eyes widened. “Shabaun!”
“Share it.”
The light from Sherella’s lantern poured into Shabaun’s shadow, and the shadow poured into Sherella’s light. Their magic intertwined, not as two forces in opposition, but as two halves of a single whole.
The helix stabilized, seed pulsed.
Then It bloomed.
The Blooming of the Seed
A column of golden light erupted from the fissure, rising into the sky like a newborn sun. The lantern flames flared in response, each colour weaving into the beam, rose, indigo, gold, emerald, silver, until the entire clearing glowed with a spectrum of living magic.
The coven shielded their eyes.
Shabaun and Sherella stood at the center of it all, hands clasped, their magic flowing in perfect harmony.
The light softened.
Lowered.
And from the heart of the fissure rose a small, delicate sprout, no larger than a child’s hand, yet glowing with the warmth of a thousand dawns.
The Seed had bloomed.
And the land would flourish for generations.
The Aftermath
When the light faded, the coven gathered around the sprout in reverent silence.
Quira knelt beside it. “It’s beautiful.”
Sherella smiled weakly. “It is life.”
Shabaun placed a hand on the young witch’s shoulder. “And it is ours to protect.”
The coven bowed their heads.
The Rite had taken its toll, Shabaun and Sherella were pale, exhausted, their magic drained to embers. But they stood tall, hands still clasped, united in purpose.
Sherella looked at Shabaun. “We did it.”
Shabaun squeezed her hand. “We did it together.”
The first true breeze of spring swept through the clearing, carrying the scent of thawing earth and new beginnings.
The coven lifted their lanterns.
And as the moon rose above the treetops, the Verdant Veil celebrated Ostara; not just as a turning of the wheel, but as the night they saved the balance of the world.
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