The Eye of the Beholder

The royal proclamation unfurled beneath the noonday sun, gilded and grand, declaring that the king—ruler of three provinces and protector of five rivers—would host a contest to find a suitor worthy of his only child. The princess was said to be the very image of harmony between kingdoms, carrying her father’s sky-blue eyes—twin mirrors of the sky itself, and her mother’s fair curls, bouncing in tendrils about her waist. From the skybound towers to the village wells, the news spread: on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, the princess would be promised.

The kingdom stirred like rabbits during mating season. Bakers dusted their aprons with flour and prepared for towering cakes iced in spun sugar and cookies adorned with chocolates. Knights dragged whetstones across blades with precision, while aristocrats practiced poses before mirrors, angling for humility and allure. Each professional imagined themselves as the one to capture a heart shaped by royalty and raised on stories.

Meanwhile, in a high tower far removed from the clamor below, the princess stood at her window, unmoved by the fanfare meant to honor her. Trumpets did not thrill her. Promises did not sway her. Her gaze drifted beyond the garden walls to the horizon’s quiet hush—though now and then, it lingered near the stables, where a boy named Ian practiced lancing with more heart than grace. He wasn’t nobility, but he’d made her laugh once when she wasn’t supposed to, and for reasons she hadn’t dared examine, she found herself looking for him more often than not. Still, none of it—the contests, the gowns, the promise of a future—felt like her own.

The princess had nothing against love—not entirely. She’d once seen an elderly man at the town market sweep in front of the flower stand, drop clumsily to one knee, and present a wild bouquet to his lifelong love as if it were their first spring together. That, she understood. That, she might even want someday. But the idea of being won—like some prize at the end of a swordfight—made her sick. She was more than a title stitched onto a marriage contract, or curtsies and court smiles. There were pieces of her undiscovered, tucked away in the furthest reaches of herself that no suitor’s challenge could uncover.

Her thoughts often drifted to Ian—the lanky stable boy who trained behind the north paddock after the others retired. He wasn’t particularly agile, but he practiced with a fire that made her watch him. There was no shortage of mud covering his boots, the scent of leather as he passed, and ash on his palms. Once, he caused hysterics by jousting with a rake—until he tripped over a startled goat in the process. She couldn’t catch her breath! Occasionally, he left behind flowers, shards of glass smoothed by the sea, a pouch of crystal dust he swore he bought from a traveling magician. Ian was as unusual as his gifts.

That evening, over a dinner garnished in decadence and silence, the topic of her “future king” surfaced again. Her father spoke of alliances, his voice thick with pride. Her mother, without even looking up from her pheasant, tapped beneath her chin—a silent reminder to sit up straight. The servants kept their eyes downcast, pretending not to notice.

“I’m not a trophy,” she muttered, her voice soft but calm.

“Of course you’re not,” the queen replied, slicing into her meat as if the subject were already settled.

The princess set her fork down with a gentle clink that seemed to echo. “Am I your daughter, or a treaty between kingdoms?” she queried.

With a look of shock—but no reply—she stood, her skirts brushing past the table, and fled into the only place that still felt like it cared whether she was happy: the garden.

The garden welcomed her like a secret kept only for her—satin roses breathing in the moonlight, soft earth cradling each step. She didn’t know where she was going until she got there: the pond. Lilies bobbed across the surface, their glassy reflections vibrating with each breeze. As she stepped closer, her slipper caught on a root jutting from the trailing ivy. She pitched forward with a gasp, her outstretched arms plunging into the muddy edges of the pond, splashing up onto her cheeks.

A unexpected snicker rang out behind her.

Not cruel. Just amused.

She craned her neck, breathless and dripping, to find a frog—plump, unbothered, and seated like a little emperor atop a flat stone, surveying its watery domain with what could only be described as smug delight.

“Are you planning to renovate the whole pond, or just that edge?” the frog asked dryly, flicking its tongue to snatch a fly from the air.

“You’re ridiculous,” the princess replied, wiping at her muddy chin with a laugh. “I can renovate whenever and however I choose. I’m your landlord, frog.”

“You’re a muddy mess,” the frog countered, though the raspy voice didn’t sound offended—just amused.

The princess pushed to her feet, the hem of her sopping gown clinging to her legs—but for once, she didn’t care.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other—a drenched princess and an immovable frog—each weighing the absurdity of the other with mock disgust. Then, as if cued by the heavens, they collapsed into giggles neither could control.

When their chuckles finally faded, the frog peeled a wide petal from a nearby blossom, dipped it into the pond, and offered it with a tiny, webbed hand.

The princess smiled and accepted it with solemn grace, as if handed a royal decree. “Thank you,” she said, dabbing her face clean. “For this. And… everything.”

At first, the silence was comforting. But then, something shifted inside her. Was it the petal against her cheek? Or the way the frog didn’t ask questions—or try to fix everything?

“I’m just so tired,” she yawned, her voice cracking as the words slipped free. “Of being a pleasant, pretty prize.”

Tears spilled before she could stop them. Tracing paths through the dirt on her cheeks, warm against the cool night air.

The frog didn’t croak or shuffle away. It just sat there—blinking, waiting. Humble.

“Do you want me to say something wise now?” the frog asked after a long pause.

The princess gave a weak chuckle. “Not unless it comes with a box of chocolates.”

The frog grinned—thoughtful, maybe even amused. “Chocolates melt. I offer listening without calories.”

The princess let out a real laugh this time, fluid but bright. “That might be the best gift I’ll ever receive.”

She leaned back, arms braced behind her, eyes tracing the moonlight twinkling across the pond. “You know,” she said, suddenly direct, “my father’s planning a contest for my birthday.”

The frog’s throat puffed slightly. “Let me guess—jousting, sword fights, feet chopped off for not dancing well enough?”

The princess smiled. “He hasn’t told me what it is yet. Only that the winner gets me.”

“Well,” the frog sniffed, “that sounds lovely. Nothing says eternal happiness like a blood-soaked brawl for a girl who doesn’t want it.”

The princess raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you have ideas.”

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two,” the frog smugly responded.

A beat passes.

“What if,” the frog mused, stretching one leg out lazily, “instead of a contest where boys clobber each other with sticks, they… I don’t know… make food?”

The princess blinked. “Pastries?”

“Or cookies. Or tarts. Or anything that doesn’t end with someone bleeding. Death is overrated.” The frog gave an exaggerated shudder. “If you must marry a stranger, let it at least be someone who can season a roast—not just clobber you with sticks.”

The princess gave a breathy giggle. “That actually doesn’t sound terrible.”

“Good. Now go tell your royal planners. Say it came to you in a dream—or a sudden burst of uncommon sense.”

The next morning, the princess stood in the throne room, framed by two towering stained-glass windows and five uncomfortable advisors. Her father sat upon the high-backed throne, robes cascading down the steps like a velvet waterfall, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with suspicion. Beside him, her mother perched with hands folded and lips pressed into a line of quiet expectation.

“I’ve made a decision,” the princess said, chin lifted.

The king arched a brow. “Have you?”

“I was thinking—a culinary challenge.”

The silence was so complete it nearly echoed.

“A… what?” the queen asked, blinking.

“A cooking contest,” she repeated. “Instead of swords, horses, and people killing each other.”

“She means jousting,” someone offered.

The king remained motionless before his confused voice asked, “You want your hand in marriage won by stew?”

“Not necessarily stew,” she countered. “Something created with passion. Resilience. Creativity.” She leaned forward with a quirk of her brow. “Commitment. Something that reveals true character.”

The queen stared. The advisors murmured. Then, surprisingly, the eldest among them—a wrinkled woman with ink-stained fingers—spoke up. “It’s quite fashionable among the commoners. There’s even a bakery duel in the eastern provinces.”

That was all it took. The king, ever eager to appear modern, waved his hand. “Very well. A feast it shall be. But you’ll still wear the gown.”

When word of the princess’s decision reached the village, Ian nearly dropped the crate of carrots he was hauling to the kitchen. A cooking contest. Of all things—a cooking contest. He stood there in stunned silence, heart hammering, before a huge grin spread across his face.

“She chose this,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “She could’ve picked a joust or a duel—and she chose food.”

That night, he pulled out his grandmother’s old recipe book, the pages yellowed and folded at the corners. Most of it was simple fare—meals born from lean seasons and long days—but tucked between stews and biscuits were a few gems: dishes made from ingredients common folk could afford, yet bold enough to stand out on a royal table.

“Something she’s never tasted,” he whispered, flipping to the margins where his grandmother had jotted notes. “Simple. Surprising. Unforgettable…”

The princess returned to the garden two nights later, heart beating faster than she liked to admit. She told herself it was to share the news—the contest had been approved, the kitchens were abuzz, the invitations sent. But that wasn’t the only reason her slippers led her down the same mossy path. Not the only reason her eyes scanned the flat stone before she even reached the pond.

The frog was there, exactly as before, legs tucked neatly under, blinking with bright amusement.

“It worked,” the princess said, breathless. “They actually listened.”

The frog didn’t look surprised. “Of course they did. You’re their princess.”

“I don’t always feel like one.”

“Then maybe you’re not their kind of princess.”

That gave the girl pause. She stepped closer, smoothing the fabric of her dress where it clung to her knees. “I came back because…” She hesitated, gaze falling. “Because you listen. And when you don’t, you say something strange but oddly helpful.”

“Is that a compliment?” the voice croaked—low, dry, and just a little bored.

The princess smiled. “It’s the highest one I’ve given all week.”

The princess settled into the grass, folding her legs beneath her. Crickets sang from the reeds, and moonlight painted soft rings around the pond. For a while, she said nothing.

Then, quietly: “How do you… show someone you care about him?”

The frog didn’t blink. “A kiss usually works.”

The princess let out a startled breath—half laugh, half gasp. “Well. That’s… straightforward.”

“Most gestures are. People tend to make them complicated.”

They lingered for a while, swapping ridiculous thoughts and made-up riddles, trading time like treasure. The princess admitted she sometimes snuck sweets from the kitchen and blamed the court hound. The frog confessed to once startling a swan so badly it crashed into a hedge. Their laughter rose in uneven bursts, echoing across the water.

Eventually, the princess rose with a yawn, brushing grass from her dress.

“I should sleep,” she murmured. “Tomorrow’s the feast, and I’ll need to pretend to be delighted for hours.”

“You could be delighted,” the frog replied.

She tilted her head. “You’re very sure of things you know nothing about.”

“Confidence is easier when you’re small and uninvited.”

The princess smiled, touched two fingers to her brow in a mock salute, and turned back toward the palace. “Goodnight, frog.”

That night, her dreams carried her back to the pond, though it shimmered silver instead of green, and the stars above it pulsed like breath. She stood barefoot on the shore, the water warm around her ankles. The frog was already waiting on the stone, still as moonlight, watching her.

“I think I love you,” she whispered.

The frog didn’t respond.

So she stepped closer. Knelt. And pressed her lips to the frog’s forehead, soft and strange and cold.

The world around them blurred like wet ink, colors smearing as the frog grew, changed, and rose into the form of a man.

But it wasn’t Ian.

He was taller, older, unfamiliar. His hair curled in dark ringlets at his collarbone, and his eyes—deep and unreadable—were nothing like the sky-colored ones she’d come to associate with hope.

She stepped back, unsettled. “Who…?”

The dream didn’t answer.

She woke to morning light spilling across her floor, the memory clinging like an itchy part of her back she just couldn’t reach.

She slipped out just after breakfast, before the attendants could fuss with powders and pins. The garden was still damp with morning, the air humming with bees and the rustle of awakening leaves.

The frog was there, as always.

The princess crouched beside the stone, dipping her fingers into the pond and watching the ripples fan outward. “I had a dream,” she murmured. “You turned into someone I didn’t recognize.”

The frog didn’t respond.

“So just in case,” she murmured, leaning in, “I want the benefit of the doubt.”

She kissed the top of the frog’s head—gently, reverently, almost in jest.

The frog’s big eyes blinked. Then, with no particular urgency, lapped a grasshopper out of the air and returned to stillness.

The princess stared, a wistful smile curving one corner of her mouth. “Worth a try,” she murmured, then turned back toward the castle.

She was dressed in a hurried four and a half hours—corset laced tight, petticoats fluffed, her hair wound into a crown of braids and pearls. Her gown shimmered like sunlight caught on water, and the crystal shoes pinched ever so slightly with every step. It didn’t matter. Today, everything was supposed to sparkle.

When she reached the top of the grand staircase, the room below fell silent. Servants paused. Musicians lowered their bows. Even the courtiers who whispered for sport couldn’t find words.

And at the far end of the hall, Ian stood beside the banquet table, his mouth parted just slightly, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.

The princess curtsied—not too deep, not too proud—and let her father take her hand and lead her into the crowd. Every step felt choreographed, every smile painted on. But beneath it all, a thrill stirred quietly in her chest.

Somewhere in this room, she thought, is a dish that might change my life.

And someone waiting to offer it.

The banquet stretched the length of the hall, every silver dish polished to a mirror shine. Steam curled upward in soft ribbons, perfuming the air with honey glaze, spiced meats, and citrus tarts. The princess sampled carefully—just a bite here, a sip there—selecting dishes with either bold color or curious shapes.

Each bite brought polite nods, approving murmurs, and a flutter of applause. But her thoughts kept drifting toward the far end of the table, where Ian waited with something hidden beneath a domed cover and a nervous smile.

She cleansed her palate with a spoonful of sorbet and dabbed delicately at her lips. She was nearly full, but she had saved room.

Finally, she stood before him.

He bowed—awkwardly, endearingly. “For you, my princess.”

She lifted the silver cover and found golden-brown wings, crisped to perfection, arranged in a flower-like spiral on fine porcelain.

“Wings?” she asked, intrigued.

“Old family recipe,” he said. “Simple. Surprising. I thought you might like something… different.”

She curiously picked one up and took a bite. The skin crackled; the meat was buttery, sweet, and finished with a peppery bite that teased her tastebuds.

“That’s lovely,” she said, licking a smudge from her finger.

“And for dessert…” He gestured toward a goblet beside the plate—velvety pudding speckled with tiny pearls and fresh berries. “My grandmother’s favorite.”

She scooped a spoonful, popping a berry between her teeth. It burst with a satisfying snap.

“That was actually fun!” she laughed, giving him a playful nudge. “What do you call it?”

Ian beamed. “They’re my grandma’s recipes—she grew up on a farm. You deserved something real. So I made her signature fried frog legs and homemade frog-eye pudding.”

Time froze, as if caught in her throat.

Then reached for her kerchief and dabbed at her lips again, more to stall than to clean. “Of course,” she said, voice catching, “they’re from the market?”

He giggled, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her in close. “Nope. Nothing but the freshest for you, my princess. Gathered them myself from the palace gardens.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her face dropped, and her breath caught as she rotated toward the towering glass doors overlooking the gardens.

Just past the hedges, beyond the trimmed grass, the pond gleamed in the early evening light.

The flat stone sat empty.

The water was still as glass.

And in her chest, something folded in on itself—softly, quietly—like a lily closing for the night.

Light pressure on her shoulder caused her to jump. “Ian…” she breathed.

He beamed and gave her shoulders a warm squeeze. “I almost made chocolates instead. Bet you’re glad I went with this.”