Froggy wanted the lily pad at the center of the pond for his throne, but mud blocked his view. He sat in the shallows, chin level with the water. Reeds rose thick around him. Cattails leaned close, their brown tops fat as fists. He saw stems, mud, and more stems. He could not see the pad itself. A king must know his road to the crown. Froggy saw only green walls. He pushed off and swam a short loop. The reeds only closed tighter. He bumped a stone and stopped. The water here lay flat and dark. It showed him his own frowning face, nothing more. He slapped the surface with one webbed foot. Drops flew. The ripples spread, then died. Still no pad, no path, no plan. "You're stuck," said a small voice behind him. Froggy turned. A tiny frog clung to a reed near the waterline. Hoppy, the youngest in the shallows, barely bigger than a beetle. Froggy had chased this little one off his hunting spots a dozen times. Hoppy's huge eyes watched him now without fear. "I am not stuck," Froggy said. "I am planning." "You can't see anything down here," Hoppy said. "Nobody can. That's why I climb." Froggy opened his mouth to argue. Then he watched Hoppy. The small frog gripped the reed and pulled upward, one grip at a time. The stem bent under the tiny weight. Hoppy climbed until the reed tipped sideways, high above the mud. "The sunny pad is that way," Hoppy called down. "Past three pads and a floating leaf. There's a clear lane of water. I can see all of it." Froggy stared at the reed. He was far heavier than Hoppy. A single stem would snap under him. But Hoppy's idea was sound. Height beat mud. He needed something taller and stronger. He looked at the cattails. Three of them stood close together in a tight clump. Their stems were thick, almost finger-width. Froggy waded to them and gripped the center one. It held. He pulled himself up, legs hugging the stalk, and the three stems leaned into each other and braced his weight. He climbed. Mud fell away below. The green walls dropped. At the top, the whole pond opened before him. He saw the sunlit pad at the heart of the water, broad and golden. He saw the lane Hoppy named, a clear path between the smaller pads. He traced it with his eyes, grip by grip, leap by leap. The route was his now. "I see it," Froggy breathed. Then the cattails gave a slow, wet crack. His weight was too much. The clump began to lean toward the open water, bending faster. Froggy clung tight as the stems bowed low, carrying him out over the deep pond, straight toward a startled heron standing in the shallows below.

The cattails snapped. Froggy fell. The stems let go all at once, and the open pond rushed up at him. Below, the heron's wet eyes fixed on him. Wind pushed past his face. He had nothing to grip, no stem, no leaf, no branch. If he hit the water hard, he would land stunned, and the long beak would be waiting. Froggy spread his legs wide. His webbed feet opened like four small sails. The air caught them. His fall slowed, just a little, and he tilted sideways, away from the bird. He kicked against the air and twisted his body toward the shore. The heron stabbed upward. Its beak clicked shut where Froggy had been a breath before. Froggy's slowed drift had carried him past it. He aimed his whole body at the thickest green he could see: the dense ring of reeds at the water's edge. He crashed into the stalks. Slender reeds bent under him and sprang back. Soft seed heads slapped his face. He grabbed one reed, lost it, caught another. Each one slowed him. He slid down through the layered stalks, bouncing from stem to stem, until his feet touched mud. Froggy lay still in the screen of reeds. His heart banged. The seed heads swayed above him, hiding him from the open water. Through a gap he saw the heron turn its head, searching. It could not find him. The reeds held him like a cupped hand. He breathed. He was alive. Bruised, muddy, and safe behind the green wall. Then he lifted his chin and remembered what he had seen from the top. The clear lane. The three small pads. The floating leaf. The sunlit throne at the heart of the pond, broad and golden. The route was still fixed in his mind, grip by grip, leap by leap. But now a tall gray shape stood between him and that lane. The heron had moved. It planted its legs in the shallow water, right across the clear path Froggy needed. Its beak hung ready over the exact lane to his throne. Froggy crouched lower in the reeds. He had escaped the fall. He had kept his map. But the open road to the crown now had a guard, and the guard was hungry.

Froggy crouched in the reeds and watched the heron. The bird stood still in the clear lane, legs like gray sticks in the shallows. Its beak pointed at the water, waiting. Froggy needed that lane. It was the only open road to the golden throne. But every time he leaned toward the water, the long neck turned his way. He could not cross. Not while the guard stood watch. He needed the heron to look somewhere else. He needed noise, movement, anything to pull those wet eyes off the lane. A soft hum buzzed near his ear. Froggy flinched. A bumblebee bumped against a seed head beside him. Its wings shone like drops of dew, thin and bright. The fuzzy body tumbled from stalk to stalk, drunk on the swaying reeds. It paid Froggy no mind at all. Froggy watched it bounce. An idea came. The heron hunted things that moved. If something buzzed and flashed across the water, the bird might strike at it instead of the lane. He crept close. The bee crawled along a low reed, wings twitching. Froggy judged the gap. Then he lunged and swatted the stalk with his back foot. The reed whipped. The bee shot free in a loud, angry spiral, straight out over the open water. The heron's head snapped toward the sound. Its eyes locked on the bright, buzzing dot. The long neck coiled back. Froggy did not wait. He dove into the clear lane and swam. His legs kicked hard. Water pushed past his face. He kept his eyes on the first small pad ahead and did not look back. Behind him the beak struck. It missed the darting bee once, twice. The bee climbed higher, out of reach, and droned away over the reeds. The heron stabbed at empty air. Froggy reached the first pad and pulled himself up. He crouched low and glanced back. The heron had turned. Its eyes found the ripples in the lane. It saw him now. The bird took one long step toward him. Then another. But Froggy was past it, on the far side, closer to the throne than the heron could reach in a single stride. The clear lane lay open ahead, a line of small pads leading to the broad golden one at the pond's heart. The heron screamed and beat its wings. Too slow. Froggy leaped to the second pad, then the third. Each landing held his weight. The guard was behind him now, not in front. Froggy stopped on the last small pad and caught his breath. The golden throne floated just ahead, wide and warm in the sun. He had crossed the lane. The heron still waded at the lane's mouth, hungry and cheated. But the throne sat higher than he had thought. Its edge rose above the water, slick and steep. And near its rim, something moved in the sunlight, already resting where Froggy meant to rule.

Froggy crouched on the last small pad and stared at the throne. The golden lily pad rose above the water, slick and steep. On top sat a frog in a bright dress, her back to him. She had reached his throne first. Froggy did not know if she would hand it over or fight him for it. He swam the short gap and tried to climb. His feet slipped on the smooth edge. He fell back with a splash. He tried again, clawing at the rim. The frog in the dress turned and looked down at him. "You're scratching my throne," she said. Her voice was calm and clear. "It's a good throne. I found it this morning." "It's mine," Froggy said. He pulled himself higher and got one leg over the edge. "I crossed the whole pond for it. I beat the heron." She tilted her head. "The heron almost ate me too. That's why I climbed up here." She pointed a webbed finger back toward the lane. The gray bird still waded at the far mouth, hungry and watching. Froggy hauled his body onto the warm golden pad. Now they both stood on it. The throne was wide, but not wide enough for two frogs to rule. He puffed out his throat to look bigger. She did not move. "I won't share," Froggy said. "Neither will I," she said. She set her feet and leaned toward him. The dress swayed. Her eyes did not blink. They circled each other on the slick pad. Froggy's foot slid. He caught himself. He saw how steep the edge dropped to the water, and how the heron watched for any frog that fell. One hard shove would send them both back into the lane, into the beak. Froggy stopped. He looked at her, then at the bird. "If we fight, we both go in the water," he said. "The heron wins." She glanced at the gray guard. For the first time her shoulders dropped. "Then I go to the reeds," she said. "You can have the throne. I don't want the beak more than I want the seat." She crouched at the far edge, spread her feet, and leaped. She slid down the slick gold, hit the water clean, and swam fast for the reeds. The heron stabbed, missed, and screamed. She vanished into the green stalks. Froggy stood alone on the throne. The sun warmed his back. He had won it. He had the seat at the heart of the pond. Then he felt it. The golden pad tipped under his weight. Slow at first, then faster. With only one frog, nothing held the far side down. The throne leaned toward the open water, toward the waiting heron, and began to slide.

The throne tipped faster. Froggy threw his weight back, but the gold slid under him. Below, the heron lifted its head. It had seen him. The far edge of the pad rose into the air while his side dropped toward the water. He dug his toes into the slick surface and found nothing to hold. He needed weight on the high side, and he needed it now. One frog could not hold the throne. He knew that now. But the frog who could help him had leaped away. She was in the reeds, safe, and she had no reason to come back. "Wait!" Froggy shouted toward the green stalks. The pad kept sliding. "The throne needs two! I can't hold it alone!" The reeds shook. The frog in the bright dress poked her head out. She looked at him, at the tipping pad, at the heron rising in the water. "You said you wouldn't share," she called. "I was wrong!" The water was close now. He could smell the mud. "Come back. We both rule it, or I feed the bird. Your choice too." She did not move for one long breath. Froggy's back foot touched water. The heron stepped forward, beak ready. Then the frog in the dress spread her feet and dove. She hit the lane clean and swam hard for the throne. The heron turned toward her and stabbed. She twisted left. The beak struck the water where she had been. "Climb!" Froggy yelled. He leaned as far back as he dared, holding his corner down. She reached the low edge and clawed up the slick gold. Her fingers slipped. She caught the rim with both hands and hauled herself over. "The far side!" he said. "Get to the far side!" She scrambled past him to the high edge and dropped her weight onto it. The pad slowed. It wobbled. Then it settled flat and still, level on the water. Froggy felt it hold under both of them. The heron screamed and waded back to its corner, cheated of two meals at once. They stood on the throne together, breathing hard, soaked. The sun warmed the gold between them. "It's steady now," she said. She smoothed her wet dress. "Because there are two of us." Froggy nodded. He had wanted the throne for himself. He had crossed the whole pond for a seat that would drown him alone. Now he shared it with the frog he had tried to drive off. The throne was his. It was also hers. He did not know yet how two frogs could rule one pad without the old fight starting again. But the gold held them both above the beak, and for now that was enough. "Don't scratch it," she said, and almost smiled.

The throne held flat for one whole morning. Then Froggy's partner shifted on her side. "I'm hungry," she said. "I have to feed." Froggy felt the gold tilt the moment she spoke. If she left, her weight left with her. The pad would drop under him, slide down the water, and spill him toward the heron still waiting in its corner. Two frogs could rule the throne. One could not keep it. And no frog could sit forever without eating. "Wait," Froggy said. "If you go, I tip. If I go, you tip. We're stuck." He looked at the water. The heron stood with its neck folded, patient. It knew they could not stay up here forever. It only had to wait for one of them to move. Froggy studied the throne. It needed weight on both sides. Not two frogs. Weight. He scanned the pond's edge. Among the reeds sat a frog-shaped house, round and squat, with a leafy grin and a little round window. Chunks of old bark and leaf litter lay piled at its base, washed up against the wood. "The house," Froggy said. "See the heavy bark by it? If I drag a piece out and set it on my side, it holds my weight when you leave." She frowned. "And how do you get it here without tipping?" "You hold the high side. I go low and fast." He did not wait for her to argue. Froggy slid to the edge, spread his feet, and dove into the lane. The heron's head snapped up. It stabbed. Froggy kicked sideways and the beak missed by a hand. He reached the reeds and hauled himself onto the mud by the grinning house. The bark was heavy and wet. He bit the edge and pulled. It barely moved. He braced his back feet against the house's wooden base and shoved. The bark slid free of the litter. Behind him, the heron waded closer. Froggy rolled the bark into the shallows. It floated. He climbed on top and paddled with both back feet, steering it down the lane. The heron lunged. Froggy flattened himself. The beak clanged against the bark instead of flesh. The bird reared back, confused. "Push it to the low side!" his partner called. She leaned hard on the high edge, holding the pad as steady as she could. Froggy shoved the floating bark against the throne's low rim and heaved it up. It scraped onto the gold. He climbed up after it and dragged it to the center of his side. "Now let go slow," he said. She eased her weight off the high edge. The pad trembled. Froggy held his breath. The bark pressed down where his body had pressed before. The throne wobbled once, twice. Then it settled flat. Level. Steady, with a frog on one side and a slab of wet bark on the other. His partner laughed, shocked. She crossed to the low edge, slid into the lane, and swam for the reeds to feed. The pad did not move. The bark held her place. Froggy sat alone on his throne, dry and safe, the gold level beneath him for the first time. The heron screamed and waded back to its corner. It had no move left. The frogs could leave and return now, one at a time, and the throne would always hold. Froggy had crossed the whole pond for a seat that drowned him when he was alone. He had learned he could not keep it by himself. Now he had found the third thing that kept it steady when no frog could. His partner came back with a belly full of flies and took her place. They moved the bark to the center and shared the warm gold between them. From then on they ruled the lily pad in turns and together, trading the slab of bark for a frog whenever one grew hungry. The throne at the heart of the pond was his at last, and it held because he had stopped trying to hold it alone.