Moria bet he did. Levi was one of the youngest guards, just past his twentieth summer. After the Fire Festival, when she’d had a few too many sips of honey wine, he’d taken her behind the hall and offered to “make her a woman.” He apparently made the same offer to Ashyn after the autumn dance, perhaps hoping to double his chances.

In theory, Moria was not opposed to his proposal. She understood his offer didn’t come with heartfelt promises of undying love. Ashyn was the one who dreamed of romance. Moria’s interest in men was far more practical.

Although the Keeper and the Seeker were not permitted to marry, they could take lovers. While Ashyn envisioned ardent romances, Moria didn’t quite see the point. She did understand the physical allure, though. When she watched the guards strip off their tunics in the summer heat, she could feel her own body temperature rise. Sadly, given Levi’s fumbling embraces, he didn’t quite seem suited to the task. That hadn’t stopped him from trying. Nor had it stopped Moria from allowing the occasional kiss or fondle, in hopes that, with practice, he might get better at it. So far, though, he’d shown no aptitude for learning.

“Moria,” he called. “Come up. It’s too cold down there.”

“I have my cloak,” she said, pulling it tighter.

“It’s too dark.”

She lifted her lantern in answer.

“It’s too dangerous.”

That one wasn’t even worthy of reply.

“Quit your caterwauling, Levi!” yelled a voice behind her.

The newcomer was almost invisible under cover of night, dressed in a dark tunic, breeches, and boots, his skin no lighter. The only color came from his bare forearms, the ink-black tattoos spotted with green, like emerald-studded sleeves.

“No, Gavril,” she said. “I am not trying to sneak into the forest after my sister.”

“You’d better not, Keeper. I meant what I said.”

Daigo growled as anger warmed Moria’s wind-chilled face. “You told me once. That’s enough.”

Two days before the Seeking, Gavril had caught her on the other side of the first tower investigating a possible blind spot that would let her slip past the canyon wall. Gavril hadn’t simply warned her against going into the forest. He’d reminded her about the last party of the damned to enter the forest. How a young man carried her sacred blade. A non-warrior. An exile.

Gavril had been guarding the exiles that night, and he’d seen her give her dagger to the boy. Then he’d held on to that knowledge . . . to use against her.

She’d asked him to let her go into the forest. No, not asked. Shame heated her cheeks as she remembered. She’d begged him. Moria would only follow the party—she wouldn’t interfere. She would let Ashyn know she was there, so Ashyn could relax and do her job. That was all.