A nearly full moon hangs in the night sky, casting its beams through the gaps in the treetops. Leaves crackle underfoot, and jagged bits nip at the soles of my feet. They're turning orange and amber with the cooling weather and have just begun to bury the summer flowers. I hope Jeayma m'ke will send me out a few more times before the next half moon to ensure that our dye supply is well stocked.

Though she may think twice about it considering the low amount I brought back earlier today. By the time I left the cave, it was basically noon. I scavenged several handfuls on the way back to camp. Jeayma m'ke never looked so disappointed with me. I could barely meet her gaze. What's worse is the way she spoke to me. She wasn't angry, merely grieved by the low supply.

"Seems the frost has already wiped out the flowers." She shook her head. "What a pity. I hope we can fully restock before winter comes."

I felt awful about my lack of contribution to the tribe. I worked extra hard all afternoon, finishing two large orders of fabric. At this rate, I might be able to finish my remaining quota before the full moon. Then, I might be able to spend my extra time working on the moonlight cloak. Though in the past, when I finish early, they have me assist with sewing the remaining robes for trade.

An owl hoots from not so far away. Branches snap, and there's a rush of crackling leaves. I freeze in place. My head whips to the left, then to the right. It's likely an animal, but I don't want to take any chances. I search the trees for any sign of a human, any sign of eyes reflecting in the darkness. I'm met only with the dark silhouettes of tree trunks.

Inhaling a breath, I continue a little quicker now. The forest tapers once it nears the rockface. I grab a handful of crackling leaves before heading inside. They are as good as anything to mark my path. Frost hits me the moment I step into the cavern. I shrink into my outer tunic, wishing now for some sunlight to provide extra heat.

Really, the Earth Watcher should have reversed these tasks. It'd have been better to make the moonlight cloak in the summer, while it was hot, then make the sunlight cloak when the temperatures cool down. But of course, a blackmailer doesn't really care about their victim's comfort. They hold the power, so they call the shots.

Somehow, the cave's belly is brighter than the night outside. I suppose it makes sense given how much moonlight is concentrated in its depths. Still, it's counter intuitive and gives me pause when I hyperfocus on it.

Leaves litter the ground behind me. I drop one at a time, feeding the floor with the dried vegetation. The brown color fortunately stands out against the stone, and with the moonlight's radiance, it's fairly easy to spot them.

The light waxes with each step. I try to pad quietly, heel to toe, to not disturb the light beams. It's even harder to suppress my panting. The brisk walk has me winded. I take steady breaths in my lungs to catch my breath. I can't risk ruining any more of the moonbeams. Every single one is precious, and who knows when I'll be able to find more?

I round a corner, and moonlight hits me in the square in the eye again. I squint at it, angling my gaze at the ground until the initial shock wears away. Carefully, I remove my outer robe and place it on the ground. My hand lingers a moment on the fabric as I glance about. Relief decompresses my lungs, and I slowly stand upright. The moonlight is undisturbed.

My raeriel is next to dismount. I lay my bag on top of my robe, then slide the wooden instrument out. My finger grazes a string, and a loud note rings through the room. I startle, clamping my hand over the fingerboard to stifle the reverberations.

The damage is already done. Silver pours over me, coating me in a chilly, almost powdery substance. It glimmers against my darkened skin. If I weren't so upset that more moonbeams disintegrated, it'd look pretty.

I rise to my feet inch by inch. No sudden movements, no noise, no—

My knee pops. The walls amplify the noise, dropping the room's brightness by noticeable levels. I press my lips together to tamp down the tears welling behind my eyes.

Focus on the music. Collect it as quickly as possible.

It's a counterintuitive thought. When I set my bow on the string, extra careful to make sure no stray sounds emanate from the string, I must center my mind on the peaceful song I'm about to play. The energy buzzing inside me stills. I take three breaths.

One, two, three—

My fingers twitch, and the raeriel chokes out a scratchy sound. I send my bow into motion before the dimming room can distract me. A silvery sound skates from the strings. It begins barely audible, but grows louder and louder as the note echoes off the walls. I move my bow in three, fluidic strokes, then hold the up bow. Mother made me hone dynamics while practicing. But all that nuanced technique I struggled with is barely needed here. Once I make even the tiniest shift in volume, the cave picks up on it, runs with it.

The slight crescendo in the first phrase drops to piano. It takes a moment for the former section to fade, replaced by a quiet refrain. The room teems with musical whispers. Notes swirl around us, passing in and out of the halls. The light in the room edges from the corners and congregates in the middle. I can't look at it straight on; the rays are too blinding when concentrated in one place. Instead, I sink into the melody.

My fingers move across the instrument with practiced ease, slipping in and out of position. The legato notes are as sumptuous as silk. I dig my bow in deeper, and the core sound vibrates in my bones, sending shivers up my spine. The light gives a burst of milky luster before fusing into one.

The room plunges into darkness. Only a small, shining sphere on the ground tells me where the light landed. I finish the song, waiting for the echo to dissipate before approaching the moonbeams. It's ice in my palm, providing the barest glow to show me where my bag is. With one hand, I place my raeriel inside my bag. I still try not to make any noise, just in case the walls have further effect on the light.

I rifle through my bag to find the simmenberry box. The moonlight slots perfectly inside, conforming to the wood's square angles. I ease the lid closed, and darkness drops over the cave. My hand pats the rock until it finally lands on my scratchy outer robe. I struggle putting it on; my head keeps hitting closed parts of the fabric, and one arm goes through the opening for my head.

That situation is enough to tell me that I need some sort of torch to make it out of the cave. Otherwise, it was pointless to leave a leafy trail for myself. Reluctantly, I reopen the lid of the simmenberry box. The moonlight seems untouched, no fine dust coating the sides to indicate that any have disintegrated.

I tiptoe through the halls of the cave. The moonlight is just enough to see one step ahead. I walk slower than usual to ensure that I don't crunch on any leaves. At last, the cave yawns open, and the forest comes into view. I feel like I can finally breathe easy, now that my thread supply had suffered no more casualties.

Drowsiness settles over me, but I don't head back to camp quite yet. I need to know how much light I collected from the cave. I place the open box in the grass and lift my raeriel once more.

The song to spin the moon is a little slower than the sun's, but maintains a similar fluidic rotation. Beams rise into the air, elongating into fine, pearly strands. They twist into lazy coils reaching the earth. I try not to rush the notes, though I'm anxious to get out of the open. Whenever I find my fingers hurrying the tempo, I force myself into the mournful melody. Sorrow washes through me anew every time. The prick of tears returns to my eyes, and I play with even more emotion.

The aching ballad tears the moonlight apart. It contorts in somber, slow twirls. Though my song draws to a close, the emotion hasn't worn out the beams. They're as thin as can be, mere wisps against the dark, but they haven't collapsed yet. I take another repeat, and another, dragging the song out. The moonlight has no short supply of empathy. Perhaps it's because the beams have been caged for who knows how long.

Finally, on the third repeat, the moon winds down, down, down. Silvery-white thread meanders through blades of grass. The final ghost of a harmonic fades into the night.

I draw in a slow breath. I scan the thread on the ground, then begin to collect it into my box. Based on previous experience, it looks like I have enough for several more squares of fabric. But there's no use in kidding myself, this won't be enough. If only I'd been more careful inside the cave, hadn't destroyed so many precious beams.

The past is always full of so many regrets, all unchangeable, as steadfast as the mountains. I have to focus on the brighter side. Once these threads are weaved, I'll have more than half the cape done. With that thought bringing a smile to my lips, I head back into the forest.