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Ninety-nine times.

I am number one hundred.

Bile collects in my throat at the thought of the blood on King Myron’s hands.

I don’t take his hand as I step to his side, as far away as I dare and as close as I can tolerate without shuddering, instead staring at the Ceremonial who, apparently, is about to marry us.

If Ludelle could see me now, he’d burn the ocean to get me out of here.

“At the death of spring and dawn of summer, one night exists when we lay our failures to rest and greet a new beginning,” the Ceremonial opens, his voice not nearly as weak as I expected, even when he seems to be falling apart at the seams. I don’t get to wonder what failures he’s referring to when he continues, “In the death of an old bride and the birth of a new one, a new hope settles over our people.”

Hope. It’s such a big word that I don’t even understand the dimensions of it anymore. I used to think hope existed. Not anymore.

“Decay makes way for life in the presence of a revered bride.” The Ceremonial glances at me as he speaks, as if he is bestowing me with a task only I can carry out, even if it will cost my life.

The air in the room tastes of wind and forest and pain, and I wonder how I know what pain tastes like. My injured arm reminds me a moment later that pain and fear are all my life now is. King Myron’s gaze lingers on the Ceremonial. I don’t know how I know, since I don’t turn to look at him, but I can feel the absence of his attention, and it is almost a soothing sensation that I get a break from his focus.

The Ceremonial inclines his head first at the Crow King, then me. “It’s time for the vows.”

“Vows—” I repeat in a murmur. Nobody told me I’d need to recite a vow. I thought I’d merely be declared the Crow King’s wife. But vows…

“Repeat after me,” Myron hisses, and my blood chills in my veins. “From this day on, I bind myself to this bride. My home shall be her home, my throne shall be her throne.”

The Ceremonial shifts his milky eyes to me, and I can’t tell if he is bored from performing this ritual for theI-don’t-know-how-maniethtime or if he simply never cared, but something tells me it doesn’t matter to him what will happen to me, what role he’s playing in this nightmare.

I don’t get out a word, tongue like lead and throat all too tight. A glance to the side informs me Royad is standing at the front of the crowd, his winged arms at his sides, hair mingling with feathers where his human features are disappearing in his spreading bird features.

“Speak,” Myron demands.

I can’t. I just can’t.

The Crow King isn’t the only one getting impatient; hissed and cawed murmurs rise in the room like fog on a breeze.

“Speak your vow, Wolayna.” Myron’s hiss jolts my tongue back into action, and I scramble for words.

“I don’t remember the words.” Because I don’t. My mind is too occupied with wondering if I’ll die the moment they’re spoken. Then there is the one thought I haven’t allowed to fill my head but is becoming more and more important with every passing moment I don’t die: What happens on the wedding night?

My feet itch to run. Guardians, my entire body is ready to bolt, to fight my way out, but with Crows lingering in every corner of the throne room, there is nowhere I can run.

“From this day on,” the Crow King hisses, turning his head, an expectant look on his face. His all-black eyes capture mine, and I can’t help but wonder if he has a consciousness behind that darkness. Even a hint would be better than this.

“From this day on,” I repeat because there is no other option.

“I bind myself to this groom,” Myron recites, revulsion surfacing on those handsome features as his bird’s face slips and I stare at his full lips, the arched, dark brows slanted over his depthless eyes.

“I bind myself to this groom,” I murmur, captivated by the contrast of his monster’s face and his beauty, which almost brings me to my knees.

“My home shall be his home, my throne shall be his throne.”

“I don’t have a throne,” I say instead of repeating the line he gives me.

The Ceremonial clears his throat. “It’s irrelevant.”

Myron purses his lips as if keeping himself from speaking.

The Ceremonial explains instead. “It’s the line from the last wedding of Carius the Cruel, King of Crows for over two thousand years. It’s tradition.”

My jaw drops.Two thousand years.How old exactly are these creatures?