Help! My Moms Are Overpowered Tyrants, and I’m Stuck as Their Baby!

Some evenings, I imagine what my life might have been if I'd stayed in the shadows unseen, unneeded, unafraid of anyone else's expectations. I might have become a legend of mischief, a cautionary tale whispered in torchlit corridors: Beware the Nightthorn girl and her impossible spells. Instead, I'm here, tangled up in a palace full of sticky-fingered twins, conspiracy pastries, and a princess who keeps rewriting her fate with nothing but stubborn hope.

And, gods help me, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The sun was down, but the palace pulsed with that anxious energy that always comes before the next storm. From my perch on the east balcony, I watched torches flicker in the courtyards. Night air cooled my skin. The city hummed with the knowledge that something was changing whether it wanted it or not.

I ran a hand through my hair, still catching faint traces of cinnamon from Elyzara's morning crisis. It was almost laughable. Once, I'd feared power because it meant becoming my mother's daughter: cold, commanding, alone. Now, power looked more like laughter over cocoa and croissants, debates about jam diplomacy, and a princess who listened even when it was uncomfortable.

Below me, I saw movement: Elyzara, lingering in the garden with the twins and Riven, discussing judging by Aeris's excited gesturing whether or not revolutionary slogans should be set to music. Mara darted through the shadows, intent on some late-night sabotage of the palace's "Snack Regulation Edict." Elira trailed behind, a book under one arm and the patient resignation of someone who'd seen far worse.

I let myself drift into the quiet, replaying the day's events: the council's wary hope, the children's pride, the way Elyzara's hand had fit so naturally in mine. I'd always believed survival meant secrecy, keeping everyone at arm's length. Now I wondered if the bravest thing I'd ever done was letting myself be seen at all.

A soft cough broke my thoughts. Elira stepped out onto the balcony, arms folded.

"You look brooding," she observed, with the tact of someone who'd once threatened to hex me for brooding too loudly during an exam.

I gave her my best sardonic glare. "It's called planning."

Elira snorted. "You mean worrying. You can admit it. There's no rule against nerves even for people with suspiciously poetic names."

I smiled despite myself. "And you? Not worried about tomorrow?"

She shrugged. "Of course I'm worried. That's why I'm out here, instead of in there, mediating a debate over whether crumpets can be conscripted into the Royal Guard."

We both looked down to see Mara arguing her case to a bewildered footman, waving a crumpet in one hand and a copy of "The Art of War" in the other. The twins cheered from the sidelines.

Elira's tone softened. "She's going to need you tomorrow, you know. Elyzara. Not just as a friend. As someone who can remind her where the line is when to bend, and when to fight."

There was a long silence. I stared out over the garden, where stars were beginning to prick through the velvet sky.

"I'm scared," I said quietly, "that when the real choices come, I'll still reach for the old answers. Shadows. Threats. Winning at any cost. It's what I was raised for."

"People can change," Elira said. "Even Nightthorns. Especially Nightthorns, if you ask the palace staff they've started a betting pool."

A laugh escaped me. I felt lighter. "What's the spread?"

"Even odds on you saving the day with either a dramatic magical speech or by throwing Mara at the enemy," she said, eyes twinkling. "Five-to-one that you kiss the princess in public. Ten-to-one that you accidentally cause a diplomatic incident with jam."

It was my turn to smirk. "You underestimate my powers of chaos."

A comfortable silence settled between us. I found myself thinking again of Elyzara. The girl who used to stumble over court rituals now commanded rooms full of old men and terrified students. She made mistakes, owned them, grew braver each time. When she'd said "stay," earlier, I'd nearly blurted "always." But I am a Nightthorn, and we don't do declarations unless they're in blood, lightning, or sarcasm.

After a time, Elira left to drag Mara away from her "crumpet conscription drive." I lingered, lost in memory and possibility.

From below, Elyzara's laughter drifted up clear, bright, full of that unbreakable, ridiculous hope.

I headed inside, feet silent on the marble, and found Elyzara in the study. She'd fallen asleep at her desk, face half-buried in peace-treaty drafts and the twins' sticky artwork. I watched her breathe for a long time, the ache in my chest both old and new.

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her. "You're going to change the world," I whispered, "and if I'm lucky, I'll help."

I draped a blanket over her shoulders, hesitated, and left a small, enchanted night-blooming flower at her elbow a Nightthorn charm for courage.

In the corridor, Mara and Riven passed me, locked in debate about the merits of "stealth scone sabotage." Elira, rolling her eyes, joined me. "Come on," she said. "Tomorrow we start the impossible again."

The palace quieted, the city settling into uneasy dreams.

And in the stillness, I let myself believe: we weren't just surviving anymore. We were beginning something a story worth risking our shadows for.

Maybe hope, like a Nightthorn, was at its strongest in the dark.

Night deepened in waves of silver and shadow, but I couldn't shake the echoes of Elyzara's laughter from my mind. Halls hushed long ago; torches guttered, and the palace slipped into a dream-haunted quiet. Yet sleep felt impossible I paced the east wing, tracing the wrought-iron railings with restless fingers, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like an avalanche.

I found myself at the old Armory, its barred doors long unused, where I'd once trained in secret drills. Inside, beams of moonlight cut through the gloom, illuminating racks of swords and shields that had never known true battle. My reflection winked at me from a polished breastplate, and for a moment I saw not the calm shade-walker I pretended to be, but a girl terrified of failing the one person she couldn't afford to disappoint.

When dawn's first rose-light crept through stained-glass windows, I left the Armory and headed toward the Glass Pavilion a neutral ground for tomorrow's parley. Elyzara had asked for it: a circle of crystal walls where magic could be measured, spoken aloud, and balanced. My heart thumped with a blend of dread and determination. Sable's reputation preceded her: fierce, glint-eyed, and rumored to command shadows as easily as her own name.

The Pavilion's doors stood open, dew-slick on the marble steps. I slipped inside, heart half-silenced by the hush of enchantments humming in the glass itself. There, waiting, stood Sable tall, lean, hair like raven feathers caught in a midnight breeze. Her eyes, when they found mine, were cool and curious, as if she'd expected me, but not quite known what to make of me.

"Nightthorn," she greeted, voice low, layered with distant thunder. "I wondered if you'd show."

I inclined my head, keeping my tone measured. "I would not miss this. Your terms are your own, but I trust we both want a future without needless bloodshed."

She edged closer, examining the Pavilion's shifting patterns. "Trust is earned, Princess. I have questions for you and your princess before we negotiate peace."

I stepped forward, magic prickling at my fingertips. "Ask them."

Her gaze flicked to the crystal floor, then back to me. "Why do you stand by her? By her side, while she rebuilds a kingdom built on secrets and fear? Why should I believe this revolution of hers is real?"

I swallowed, recalling the countless nights we'd shared whispered fears, reluctant admissions, and laughter like a spark in darkness. "Because I've seen her listen where others shouted. Because she's stumbled and still stood again. Because I know what she's willing to risk: not power, but her people's trust. And because I believe that no dream of change is possible without someone willing to reach across the void."

Sable's eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought I'd spoken too much. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders relaxed. She strode to the center of the Pavilion's circle, tracing runes on the floor that glowed soft gold.

"Words are wind," she whispered, voice echoing like steel on stone. "Let us see if actions can anchor them. If Elyzara truly means what she says, she will join us soon. She will speak the same truths, under oath, within this circle. Then perhaps we can decide if we stand together or apart."

I bowed, a gesture of respect in the hush. "I'll fetch her. And I'll stay to take her side, whatever she chooses."

Sable inclined her head, the first sign of concession. "I will await her. No magic may be used to compel truth within these walls only honesty and the bonds we forge."

As I departed, the weight on my chest lightened. It wasn't victory, but it was a chance a sliver of possibility carved out of fear. I hurried back through quiet corridors, guided by memory and the slow growing light, until I found Elyzara in the greenhouse, debating with a particularly obstinate rose bush over proper treaty etiquette.

She turned at my approach, eyes bright with unshed tears and fierce pride. "She wants to speak here," I told her simply.

Elyzara's breath hitched. "On her terms? With no magic compulsion?"

"No compulsion," I confirmed, voice steady despite the quiver inside. "Only truth."

She nodded, lifting her chin. "Then we will go. Together."