Another queen might have said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that, my goodly monarch, for I reap satisfaction just from assisting whenever I can.”

Lanthe? She cried, “Okay! And that has to be in addition to the ring you already promised me.” She worked her hands to the edges of his broad shoulders, massaging there, making his wings ripple from pleasure.

“Duly noted,” he said wryly. “And your letter to Sabine? How far have you gotten?”

“Only to Feveris. I might have spent a bit of time describing the gold temple. In any case, I want the Reader of Words to scan it before I send.” She bent down and pressed a kiss to his neck. “Our story’s pretty epic.”

But she had a chapter she wanted to add: the “Thronos’s Eternal Pain Ends” part. She couldn’t change the past, couldn’t magically transform their current circumstances—but could she make his old injuries better?

She’d hesitated to use power on him; ensorcelling his pain away would be a huge risk. For instance, in combat he might need pain to recognize how bad an injury was, or to remind him of blood loss so he could adjust his tactics for weakness.

Lanthe would have to straight-up heal him. Though she’d become an expert at this when she was a girl, she hadn’t needed to use those commands for ages.

Plus, back then, Sabine hadn’t been frozen into her immortality yet; she’d been more . . . malleable.

With Thronos, Lanthe would need to take her time. An unresisting patient would be ideal.

Her sorcery heated the air when she whispered at his ear, “Sleep, Thronos.” He passed out at once, body gone lax on the bed.

She rose to remove his boots, inspecting his lower right leg. The muscles on the inside of his ankle were contorted, as if he’d sprained them to a supernatural degree. Even with his body at rest, the tendons were knotted so tightly, they pulled his foot inward.

His calf was equally bad. She probed the bunched muscles with her fingers.

Total healing? She cracked her knuckles. She had to at least try.

Blue sorcery began to shimmer in her ink-stained palms as she brushed them over his flesh. “Heal,” she commanded as she massaged him.

Heat sprang from her hands, seeping into him. She could see currents of it beneath his skin, blue swirls. “Heal.”

Beneath her fingertips, she felt the tiniest twinge. Had some tension eased?

Massaging. Sorcery. Massaging. “HEAL.”

His muscles . . . started to relax! His foot was returning to a normal resting position!

With a delighted laugh, she turned to his left wing. She grasped the gnarled joint, repeating the process. “Heal.”

In a rush, his wing scales rippled, like a racetrack betting board refreshing. With a snap, Thronos’s skewed mosaics settled back into their natural spellbinding alignment.

She lovingly traced the pads of her fingertips over those metallic scales. After repeating the same treatment on his right wing, she surveyed the rest of his big body.

If she knew her Vrekener, she’d bet he had other aches that he would never mention. So she gave him a sorcery-powered full-body massage.

Because he was a transitioned immortal, she didn’t know if these changes would stick. Most alterations on an immortal, such as a tattoo, would disappear within a day or so. But as long as her sorcery was flowing, she could do this every day.

Time to find out how her patient was doing. . . .

Thronos roused from a deep, ensorcelled sleep.

He shot to his feet, scowling at Melanthe. “Damn it, woman, why would you knock me out?”

Wait. Having bounded out of bed with no care—as opposed to his usual gradual rising—he should be feeling a chorus of anguish starting in his feet, shooting through his legs and torso, stabbing into his back and neck, before clawing through his wings.

Where is the pain?

He frowned down at his feet; they lined up perfectly. A sight he hadn’t seen in ages.

“You were saying?” she remarked from the bed, buffing her nails.

He tentatively unfurled his wings, groaning with relief. Holding his breath, he tried to pin them . . .

They folded and compressed, just as they were supposed to. “How? How is this possible?”

“Lanthe’s Sorcery Massage. Tee-em.”

“Don’t know what tee-em means,” he said with a grin. “You fixed my pain?”

Her own smile faded. In a voice laced with sadness, she said, “The least I could do since I gave it to you.”

And then she took it away. In no imagining had he dared to envision this. “Your powers are growing, lamb.”

He felt no pain; she was regenerating her abilities. They were both healing from the wounds of the past. He would allow no sadness on this night.

The Sorceri were right: dwelling on the past injured the present.

“Thronos, I don’t know if this is permanent. But I can do it every day if I have to—” She didn’t get to finish because he’d already taken her into his arms, and into the air.

“Are you okay with this?” he asked.

“I am.” She rested her head on his chest, her braids dancing over him. “I trust you.”

He swooped his wings as hard as he could, taking them far from the Hall, from worries, from responsibilities. Under the stars, he couldn’t contain a laugh. “I feel no pain!”

“It might only last a day.”

“So you’ll have to massage me daily?” Her hands all over him? Just like that, he was stiff for her. “Lucky me. But I must be awake next time. And I’d prefer to be on my back, sorceress.”