By the time Florian lowered himself into Princess Amelia’s teacup, he had already tried everything.

He had waited on lily pads, hoping she was one of those girls who believed in old fairy tales.

No kiss.

A midnight visit to her bedroom proved even less successful. Once asleep, Princess Amelia tossed and turned like a storm at sea, and only a desperate leap saved him from being flattened beneath her shoulder.

He posed beside fountains. Hid among bouquets. Nothing.

So, Florian committed to a long-term strategy—becoming the princess’s beloved pet frog.

At first, he thought the plan rather brilliant. Princesses adored helpless creatures. They stroked kittens, rescued birds, wept over injured deer. Surely, if he presented himself as a tragic little amphibian with soulful eyes, she would press a kiss to his warty brow and break this ridiculous witch’s curse before supper.

Instead, she named him Pickle.

Pickle, the frog.

A prince of royal blood.

A man who had once owned seven horses, three castles and a portrait room dedicated entirely to flattering angles.

Worse, she seemed genuinely fond of him. Every morning, Amelia fed him hand-selected flies beside her breakfast tray, and told him things no one else in the kingdom of Valoria was allowed to hear.

“The Duke of Merrow thinks I don’t understand grain tariffs,” she had said one morning, while Florian sat in a saucer of water and questioned every decision that had led him there. “Which is bold for a man who once proposed a tax on geese.”

Florian didn’t understand half of what she was talking about, but the frustration in her voice sounded real. Surely life couldn’t be that complicated for a princess. His own predicament was considerably more urgent.

More than once, Florian nearly spoke to her about it.

But he had imagined her scream, followed by a swat. Or worse, ending his royal bloodline as a greenish blob beneath her heel. Princesses were prone to dramatic reactions like that.

So he remained silent, accepting the flies and his ridiculous name, waiting for the perfect moment. Then they would kiss, marry, and live happily ever after.

It was all for naught, though. To Amelia, he was still Pickle the frog.

During Winterfest, she even tied a pink velvet bow around his neck and carried him through the palace as part of the festivities.

Florian had been so offended he spent two days sulking beneath a lotus leaf in his royal pond.

Many failed attempts later, he sat in her teacup with lukewarm tea dripping from his chin.

The breakfast room was far less exciting than one might expect from a princess. Aside from the tall windows overlooking the palace gardens, velvet curtains and carved oak furniture, most of the space had been surrendered to paperwork. Reports covered half the table, the other half buried beneath maps of Valoria’s districts.

Amelia entered in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes, her dark curls pinned neatly beneath a silver circlet. She looked beautiful, as always. That had been one of the reasons he had chosen her.

Beautiful. Of age. Unmarried—Florian’s three requirements for a princess.

Surely that was enough to break any curse.

She crossed the room while reading a stack of papers. Several sheets bore wax seals from noble houses Florian recognized. Marriage proposals, no doubt.

A small jolt of panic ran through him. He needed to do this. Now.

She picked up her tea without looking, and paused with the cup halfway to her mouth.

Florian stared up at her with puckered lips.

Amelia stared down at him.

A drop of tea slid off his nose.

“Pickle,” she said flatly. “We have discussed boundaries.”

Florian’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Ribbit.

He’d been a frog for so long, he knew exactly how to sound like one. Crickets had even started tasting downright gourmet.

Amelia sighed and lowered the cup, frog and all, back onto the oak table.

“I don’t have time to play this morning,” she said.

Without bothering to finish them, Amelia tore the marriage petitions in half and reached for a stack of considerably more boring-looking documents.

“I’m nineteen years old. In less than a year, I’ll be crowned queen. There are trade agreements to review, tax reforms to understand, and apparently three nobles are convinced a bridge can solve a drought.”

She glanced back at him.

“So if you could be a frog somewhere other than my teacup, I’d appreciate it.”

Florian puffed his throat, the translucent sac beneath his chin swelling—the frog equivalent of grinding one’s teeth.

Ribbit.

“Oh, Pickle.” Amelia smiled and touched his nose. “You’re so silly.”

Something inside him snapped.

Months of being paraded as an undignified pet in a golden terrarium had finally caught up with him. Meanwhile, every one of her kisses had gone elsewhere.

Children received them for scraped knees. Elderly ladies received them on the cheek. Once, a particularly ugly hunting dog got a peck on the snout.

Memories of all those wasted smooches tasted sour on Florian’s long tongue.

He puffed himself up even further, until his little green body looked ready to burst.

“Just kiss me, dammit!”

A beat of silence.

“I mean… ribbit.”

Bracing for impact, Florian threw both webbed hands over his face.

But the princess did not scream.

She did not strike him from the teacup.

She did not crush him beneath her sparkly heel.

Instead, Amelia set aside her reports and took a seat across from him.

“Good morning to you too, I suppose,” she said.

Florian blinked.

“W—wait. You’re not surprised?”

“Not particularly.” Amelia took a clean cup and poured fresh tea into it.

“But I just spoke.”

“Yes.” The princess stirred in two sugar cubes. “Took you long enough.”

“W—what?!” Florian’s throat inflated so suddenly again he nearly toppled backward in his own cup. “You—you knew?”

“Mhm.”

The faint sound of Amelia sipping her tea filled the room. Her eyes drifted closed, as though savoring the taste.

With a soft clink, she set her cup back onto its saucer.

Florian remained frozen in his teacup, staring at the rim where her lips had just been.

“You know…” Amelia tapped a biscuit against her chin, considering. “You aren’t exactly subtle, Pickle.”

“My name is not P—”

“At first, I simply thought you were a sickly little frog,” she interjected, dipping the biscuit into her chamomile brew. “You just flailed about the place.”

“Hey! I’ve gotten much better at jumping.”

The protest went entirely ignored as Amelia took a small bite of her cookie.

Florian wanted to cross his arms, but realized that would somehow make him look even sillier.

“But then,” she continued, “you kept appearing everywhere.”

“Lots of frogs do that, I’m sure,” he responded.

“Including breaking into bedrooms?”

Florian swallowed, nearly choking on his own tongue. The princess was far slyer than he’d given her credit for.

“Then there was the incident in the library, where you pushed three books off a shelf.”

“That proves nothing.” Florian’s throat bulged instantly.

“The books were How to Break Curses, Royal Marriages Through the Ages, and Kissing for Dummies.”

His throat sac wilted like a punctured balloon.

“In fairness,” Florian muttered, staring down at his webbed feet, “the first two were quite informative.”

That earned a giggle from the princess.

“But the pebbles near the courtyard fountain convinced me completely.” Amelia brushed her fingers together. Not a single crumb remained. “You know. The ones that spelled KISS THE FROG.”

His face grew warm. Or at least, he was fairly certain it would have if he were still human.

“So, I decided to have a little fun with it and make you my pet. My Pickle.”

Ribbit!

The sound escaped before Florian could stop it. Apparently, outrage translated directly into frog.

“Why?”

Amelia leaned across the table and propped her chin on her knuckles.

“Because it was a pleasant distraction,” she admitted. A genuine smile flashed across her face. “And because I wanted to see how long you’d keep pretending.”

The porcelain suddenly felt much colder against Florian’s slimy skin.

“Honestly, Pickle, I was beginning to think we’d never get past the ribbiting stage.”

Every muscle in his green critter body tightened.

“You knew this entire time?” A hind leg slapped against the side of his cup, causing a tiny tidal wave of tea.

“More or less.”

“More or less?” Florian repeated. “I am a cursed prince trapped in a frog’s body. And you knew!”

She opened her mouth.

“Months, Amelia! Months!”

The princess closed it again.

“Do you have any idea how difficult this has been?” he croaked.

Florian puffed himself up so much he resembled a lumpy green pear.

“I had to learn how to catch flies!”

“Technically, nobody made you—”

“And I was considerate!” he interrupted. “I didn’t want to frighten you, I planned romantic encounters. I put a lot of thought into this!”

Amelia’s dark eyebrow rose.

“You mean stalking me?”

“Don’t twist my words. You’re supposed to kiss me and break the curse. That’s how this works!”

Beyond her, the shadow cast by the sundial had crept forward another notch. Her gaze drifted toward the paperwork, now painted in shifting colours by the stained-glass flowers set into the upper window panes.

“You’re not even listening to me!”

“I am, okay? But I also have my responsibilities to worry about,” the princess responded, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And apparently helping me isn’t one of them,” he exclaimed.

A sigh escaped her.

“You know,” Florian continued, “most girls would be thrilled to be in your position.”

Her jaw tightened. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes!” He rose onto his hind legs, trying to appear taller. “I’m a handsome prince. And wealthy! There are probably hundreds of women who’d gladly kiss me.”

Silence. The sort of silence that should’ve warned him to stop.

“Honestly, I think you’re being incredibly rude,” he said.

Dust floated through a shaft of golden light, while a breeze from one of the open windows set the burgundy velvet curtains swaying.

Amelia’s fingers tapped against her teacup in an even rhythm. Blue eyes met his.

“Me? I’m rude?”

The disappointment in her voice carried enough weight to make Florian flatten himself instinctively against the porcelain bottom.

“You’ve spent months trying to force me into kissing you.”

“You make it sound awful,” Florian said. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

The crease between her brows deepened.

“Then why me?” she asked.

One of Florian’s golden eyes narrowed while the other remained wide.

“What?”

“Why did you choose me?”

The question caught him off guard. The answer had always seemed self-evident. A prince needed a princess. A curse needed breaking. That was simply how it worked.

Right?

“Let me guess. I was the first woman you came across who checked a few superficial boxes.”

His throat puffed again.

“I suppose that’s how it is for many princes and princesses,” she added after exhaling through her nose.

The condemnation Florian expected never came. Instead, Amelia walked to the tall windows. Beyond the glass, gardeners worked among the flowerbeds and servants moved along the gravel paths below. The castle was waking to life.

“Plenty of royal marriages begin that way. Suitable age. Suitable title. Everyone agrees the match makes sense, so two people are expected to build a life together.” She brushed a dark curl from her face.

“Exactly.” The word escaped him a little too eagerly.

To his surprise, she shook her head and returned to the table.

“But that’s not what I want.”

The anger that had fuelled him moments earlier receded just enough to make room for confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to have a choice.” Her fingers traced absent circles across the polished oak. “You’re allowed to choose too, you know.”

Florian simply stared, dumbfounded.

Somehow, Amelia noticed. Which was impressive, considering frog faces weren’t exactly known for their expressiveness.

Tension left her face.

Florian tracked her movements as she rose from her chair. A moment later, a hand appeared beside his teacup, large enough from his perspective to resemble a landing platform.

He eyed it suspiciously. The last time he’d trusted her, he’d ended up wearing a pink bow.

A smile tugged at the corner of Amelia’s mouth. She wiggled her fingers.

“Come on. And don’t try anything funny.”

Grumbling under his breath, Florian hopped onto her palm and scrambled up to her shoulder. The warmth of her skin felt pleasant.

A moment later, they were moving through corridors lined with tapestries. Servants stepped aside as Amelia passed. A few greeted her by name. Every single one received a greeting in return.

Florian had noticed that before.

The gardeners. The cooks. The guards stationed at the gates. Amelia somehow remembered all of them. That struck Florian as remarkably… cool.

She stopped in front of a long gallery.

Portraits covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Kings and queens stared down from gilded frames, their painted eyes seemingly following them through the room.

The sight tugged unexpectedly at something inside the frog’s body. It reminded him of home. His own likeness hung there somewhere.

Prince Florian of Alderwyn.

The memory felt strangely distant.

He had been so focused on chasing kisses, that he’d forgotten why he was doing it in the first place.

He wasn’t looking for a wife. He just wanted to go home.

To his father complaining about court politics. To his younger sister stealing pastries from the kitchens.

A sudden ache settled in his chest. Unfortunately, he lacked the tear ducts for crying. Florian swallowed and forced his attention back to Amelia.

“My grandmother.” She nodded toward a stern woman in an extravagant gown.

The queen stood proudly in the painting, one hand resting on a velvet chair. Beside her sat a king whose expression suggested he had never once been told no.

“She was the smartest woman I’ve ever known,” Amelia said quietly. “She spoke five languages, and could recite the most beautiful poems from memory.”

“Impressive,” he croaked in awe.

“All that knowledge went to waste, though,” she said, touching the painting. “Tradition said her husband was better suited to rule.”

They walked farther down the gallery.

“My great-aunt Eleanor wanted to build schools throughout Valoria.”

Amelia pointed toward a dark-haired woman in emerald green.

“The king thought it was a waste of money.”

A few steps later she indicated another.

“Queen Rosaline spent years studying engineering and irrigation.”

The list went on. By the time they reached the end of the hallway, silence had settled between them.

“My mother used to bring me here when I was little,” Amelia eventually said. “She’d tell me how fortunate I was to be born heir to the throne.”

A humourless smile crossed her face.

“Back then, I thought that meant I’d get to help people. That I’d spend my life making this kingdom better. I would matter.”

Her gaze lingered on one of the queens.

“Instead, I’m expected to spend years preparing for a crown, only to hand most of that power to a husband who doesn’t even know our most important export.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, as she shot a cheeky glance at her frog companion.

“It’s fish, by the way.”

Florian knew that. It had come up during one of their many breakfasts together.

“I’ll be queen soon. Every noble has an opinion about who I should marry, and how many heirs I should produce. Most of them have already planned the rest of my life for me,” she continued. “Some are kind enough to do it before breakfast.”

That earned the smallest huff of amusement from him.

Amelia crossed her arms, her chin lifted slightly.

“I don’t want that life.” Her voice left little room for debate. “And I have no intention of accepting it.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. No croak, no ribbit. At last, he lowered his gaze.

“I think I understand now.”

The words felt strange in his mouth.

“I hadn’t considered that I wasn’t the only one trapped by circumstance,” he added, glancing at the portraits lining the gallery. “Neither of us should have to wait for someone else to decide our future.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“Thank you for your kindness. And your wisdom.” He gave a little bow. “Apologies for my ignorance. I won’t bother you anymore. Be well, future queen Amelia.”

With that, Florian jumped down from her shoulder. At least he had finally gotten the hang of those gangly legs.

“Wait.”

He paused.

Two gentle hands scooped him up before he could hop away.

“You know,” she said, “You’re actually a pretty good listener.”

Ribbit?

“You’re rather wasted as a frog.”

A laugh escaped him.

Amelia’s smile softened.

“I don’t need a husband. But a friend? That would be nice.”

Warmth unexpectedly bloomed in his tiny chest. A rather unusual sensation for a cold-blooded creature.

“My name is Florian,” he said quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Florian.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“I’m Amelia.”

She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his forehead.