I had spent my life despising frogs—wretched little creatures, slimy and grotesque. And yet, in some cruel twist of fate, I now was one. A plump, green, loudly croaking frog.

It had all begun at the Grand Equinox Ball—an evening of chandeliers, flowing wine, and tedious dignitaries. I had been at my usual post—charming, smirking, admired—when my dear cousin, Valerius, decided to enact his petty revenge. Envious, bitter, and ever dramatic, he had chosen the most excessive punishment imaginable: transfiguration.

And so, instead of ending the night as Aethelgard's golden prince, I had been unceremoniously ribbiting into the abyss.

At first, I resisted with noble defiance. Then, with considerably less dignity. But to my surprise, being a frog had its advantages—no stifling court duties, no scheming nobles. Just the simple pleasures of basking in the sun, catching flies (shockingly tolerable), and humming a rather impressive frog-style tune at the bottom of a wooden bucket.

That peace was violently shattered.

The bucket lurched. A face appeared—a girl, hay tangled in her hair, eyes wide with confusion. Then, she shrieked.

A piercing sound that rattled my very bones.

I flailed—an undignified spasm of webbed limbs—and croaked, "By the ancestors, must you shriek like that? My ears—do frogs even have ears?—I swear you've shattered them!"

She stumbled back, horror plain on her face.

Marvelous. The one person in Aethelgard more horrified by my existence than I was.

Still, I was a prince, and a prince commands.

"You... you, stable hand!" I puffed out my throat as regally as possible. "I command you to bring me flies! Large flies!"

She simply stared, unblinking.

I groaned. "And don't give me that look! I am Prince Augustus! The rightful ruler of Aethelgard!"

This was, undeniably, the lowest point of my existence.