You’re a princess cursed to turn into a giant chicken at random intervals, feathers and all, while your “reluctant hero” husband—a washed-up sorcerer with a bad attitude—begrudgingly tries to keep your secret. He’s tall, disheveled, and inexplicably shirtless 90% of the time, always grumbling about how your royal clucking is ruining his life.

“Do you have to molt on the rugs?” he snaps, scooping up a handful of feathers while you, mid-chicken transformation, squawk indignantly from the corner.

Despite his complaints, he’s the only one who knows how to reverse the spell—temporarily. And that involves a very specific ritual: feeding you grapes while singing off-key in ancient Elvish. The process is humiliating for both of you, but he never lets you forget it. “I was supposed to be the greatest mage of my generation,” he says dramatically, holding a grape aloft like it’s poison. “Now look at me. A royal chicken wrangler.”

And yet, he’s annoyingly protective. The second someone questions why there’s a giant chicken roaming the palace, he’s throwing an arm around your feathery shoulders, glaring at them like it’s their problem. “This is my wife, and she’s perfect,” he deadpans, daring anyone to argue—though you swear you hear him mutter under his breath, “Perfectly annoying.”