That night, I resist sleep's pull, waiting for everyone else to fall asleep before me. I wait until no more noise scuffles outside my cave, no more whispers drift in the night air. Once I'm certain that the tribe has settled down, I push my deerskin blanket off me. I replace it over an oblong bundle of blankets that hopefully resembles my shape. My hope is that at a quick glance, it's enough to not rouse suspicions.

The cave is fairly small since I'm the only one living inside it. Each family gets their own cave, and clearly I don't have many relatives to share the cave with. My father passed away when I was a baby, and my mother, well, she doesn't live here anymore. My aunt disappeared soon after my mother. Though Audrel is my guardian, we aren't related by blood. So all the gray walls around me are solely mine.

Aside from my bed, a small table a few inches from the ground, my laivo (a small stringed instrument native to the tribe), and two wooden chests, the cave is empty. I creep to the chest pressed furthest in back of the cave. I scrounge through the animal skin clothes and blankets. At the very bottom, cold metal touches my fingers, and I pull out my raeriel. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, then wrap the raeriel inside an animal skin pack I made especially for it. I throw an oversized robe over me. It's large enough to hide the large bump protruding from my back.

Peering up and down the mountain path outside my cave, I deem it safe to leave. But I can't take the normal route to the mountains. Watchmen stand by the fractured cliff and higher along the mountain path. Instead, I must climb the cliff above my cave.

Even without a musical instrument, climbing up the steep side is not an easy feat. No matter how "light" the wooden raeriel is, it still makes the shoulder straps of my bag press into my skin, and the pressure only builds the higher I climb.

I wipe a thin sheen of sweat from my palms and grab the closest notch in the rock, hoisting myself up. My bare feet latch onto the rock, and slowly, I make my way up the mountain. I take deep, silent breaths to not draw the guard's attention. Silence had a way of magnifying the noises that often go unnoticed. I inhale, exhale while reaching my arm up, inhale, exhale while stepping up a notch. Sharp rocks nip at the soles of my feet, but they've grown calloused from years of climbing.

At last, my fingers grip the side of the cliff. I use my last bursts of strength to hoist myself onto a grassy plateau. Though cooler up here due to the higher elevation, sweat trickles down my brow. I stand, dusting off dirt and grass that I'm sure is on my robe. Then, I look over the ledge, down at the caves where the tribe sleeps. I can spot guards in the distance, but they are well below me. I glance around me, finally turning my gaze to the cliffs above. No more guards are in sight. I allow myself to feel the smallest ounce of relief, though I'm still on edge. I shouldn't be sneaking out, especially not to play the raeriel.

Safely away from the tribe, I fling my outer robe overhead and tuck it under my arm. I turn my gaze upward, to the rocky heights. My journey isn't finished. The chances of finding sunlight are far more likely at higher elevations. For one thing, there's less distance for the light to travel. For another, the further away from the tribe, the fewer the disturbances to the delicate beams. Without another thought, I start up a narrow path, carved by nature in the mountain.

The crystal air cleanses my lungs, and the coolness finally begins to penetrate the two animal skins I wear. My breathing descends to a manageable pace, a slight huff and puff against the comforting silence. Against the dark, I make out the shapes of sparse plants dotting the trail. The trail winds around the mountainside, where the sky-high shoulder drops on the left side, replaced by a steep ravine. Boulders jut like rotted teeth below, spikes of doom to anyone misfortune enough to miss a step.

I hug the right side of the path. No matter how many times I've traversed this route, it only takes one mistake, one misjudgement, to plummet into the darkness, never to be seen or found again.

Would anyone even go looking for me?

I push that thought down, farther down than the ravines. Of course someone would. You're part of the tribe. They'd notice you were gone.

The ascent grows less steep until it levels into a plateau. Soft grass brushes against my toes, and I wonder how this place looks during the day. I try not to make long excursions away from the tribe during the day. There's a higher chance of being missed or followed.

A sparkle winks through the darkness. I focus on a bush's dark outline in the far corner of the plateau. No longer needing my

I step toward it, removing my arms from the raeriel bag's straps. The fabric drops to the ground, as does my outer robe, and I tuck my instrument under my arm. A single ray of sun is twisted between the branches, glistening behind the leaves.

There's sunlight here, I decide. The sun's rays always fall in clusters.

I nestle the raeriel on my shoulder. My chin fits into the groove for it in the wood. The earthy scent of simmenberry wood fills my nose. Mother told me that simmenberry bark has the best ring, the vibrations of which light cannot disobey. For a moment, I close my eyes, feel the pause before the song.

With a flick of my fingers, the bow strikes the string. Vivacious notes dance through the air as the bow bounces off the string, as light as the grass surrounding my ankles. Sound rings from the core of the instrument, the chords echoing off rock until the whole plateau sings the sun's melody.

Slowly, glimmering beams of light peek their heads from the bushes. The energy pulls the rays upward, each note twisting their way into a golden vortex. I watch the scene unfold before my eyes while my fingers do the hard work. My bow leaps over the string with precision drilled into me for a decade. The jig comes easy, somehow lacking in imperfections. I dare not mess up. I risk the light collapsing to the ground, the sudden, harsh movement destroying the beams.

The longer the lively tune plays, the more light flits from the bushes and joins the massive ball of emanating heat. My fingers are so light, they tap their way up and down the instrument. The song ebbs and grows, notes slowing and accelerating in a rhythmic tide, until I reach the last measure. In a burst of energy, my bow jumps off the string and lands the final, triumphant chord.

My bow lifts from the string, and I stand there, frozen as the rocks reverberate. The echo dissipates, and I turn to where the light has collected. A golden sphere, no larger than my fist, gleams in the center of the clearing. I scoop it into my palms, inspecting the tightly packed sun.

I reach into my bag before it uncoils and stick it in a tiny, wooden box, once again fashioned from simmenberry wood. It will protect it on the journey down and while it sits with my raeriel in my trunk, waiting to be brought out again when I see Mother.

A yawn stretches my jaws. I better return to the tribe, get some rest, since I already know the next few days and nights will be even more exhausting.