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

I have never trusted my own footsteps as much as I did on the walk to the Glass Pavilion. Which is ironic, because I could feel my knees clicking like poorly-tuned castanets with every step. The dawn air smelled of dew-damp roses and fresh panic; inside my chest, hope rattled against fear like dice in a gambler's cup.

Velka strode at my side, quiet but unflinching. Her palm clasped mine cool, steady, a silent mantra of you've got this. Behind us came our unlikely entourage: Elira, brisk as a sword stroke; Mara, bouncing on her toes as though she expected treats at the finish line; Riven with three notebooks, two quills, and the haunted look of a man poised to record either diplomacy or disaster; and, trailing them, my siblings. Aeris waved her "GOOD LUCK" banner so vigorously I feared a wrist sprain; Arion brandished his flour-dusted croissant-sword at invisible enemies.

The Glass Pavilion rose from the lawn like a crystal bloom, all petal-shaped walls and arched panes shining pink in the sunrise. Magic hummed through its lattice, thrumming against my skin old spells of balance and witness, designed so no glamour or coercion could muddy what happened inside. Only truth. Only choice.

When the double doors eased open, Sable stood waiting at the center of the circular floor. She was exactly as every rumor promised: raven-dark hair, posture straight as a drawn bow, eyes that held a storm and measured everything it struck. Beside her waited a knot of supporters: students in Phoenix badges, a grim-looking professor, two traders in travel-stained cloaks, and a hard-scarred smith representatives of the North.

No guards. No weapons. Just intent. That alone frightened me more than steel.

Velka's fingers brushed my wrist You lead; I'm here. I inhaled, tasting glass-cool air, then stepped across the boundary rune. Light flared under my boots and settled. The circle accepted me.

"Princess Elyzara," Sable greeted, voice low, musical, and edged like glass. "You came."

"I said I would." My reply sounded steadier than I felt. "Thank you for agreeing to speak."

A flicker crossed her face surprise? approval?—then vanished. She gestured to a matched arc of seat-cushions laid on the floor. "Here, no thrones. We sit as equals."

I lowered myself, smoothing my coat to hide trembling hands. Velka settled to my right; Mara plopped beside her with all the solemnity of a caffeinated ferret. On my left, Elira knelt, posture perfect; Riven crouched with quills poised. Aeris and Arion tried sneaking in behind Mara; the circle shimmered, assessing intent, then mercifully allowed tiny revolutionaries.

Sable's allies formed their semicircle. A hush fell, a listening stillness so deep I could count my heartbeat.

She spoke first. "You offer reform a round-table council, new laws, an end to arbitrary punishments. I want to believe you. But too many promises were carved in gold and broken in blood. Why risk trusting you?"

Because anything else ends in fire. But I couldn't say that; I needed more than fear. I met her gaze. "Because I listened yesterday when a roomful of opponents called my family tyrants and I didn't order arrests. Because I'm here now, without swords or spell-filters, willing to have the North's grievances spoken in front of my own friends and siblings." I nodded at Aeris, who beamed, then at Arion, who tried to salute with his croissant and flung crumbs.

A soft ripple of amusement passed through Sable's ranks; even the grim professor's mouth twitched. Humor. A thin wedge into stone.

Sable's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Words are easy. Action hurts. Will you " she hesitated, as though tasting the risk "accept an Oath of Mutual Binding? Each side promises a first concession. If either breaks the pledge, the magic brands them liar."

Elira inhaled sharply: old, dangerous magic. Velka's fingers tightened on my sleeve. I answered before fear could.

"Yes."

A silver-white sigil flared between us, lines of runelight weaving into a stylized phoenix encircling a crown. The Pavilion approved.

Sable rose, drawing a slim parchment. "My concession: the Northern resistance will cease sabotage for one lunar month. No raids, no spell-sowing, no recruitment within the Academy. In return, I ask for an independent delegation chosen by crown and commons to audit royal taxes on border towns."

Murmurs erupted behind me councilors would call it surrender, nobles would call it madness but I felt Velka's silent listen. I nodded. "Done." My voice barely shook. "My concession: effective immediately, a moratorium on all punitive tariffs against the Northern provinces, pending that audit's findings. Goods and healers may pass unmolested."

The rune brightened; magic sealed around us like cool water. Across the circle, the professor let out a long breath, relief or disbelief. Mara whispered, "That's going to make the Treasurer shed actual tears. Glorious."

The smith spoke next, eyes fixed on the glowing sigil. "What of amnesty? Many followed because the crown ignored their hunger."

That cut deep. My father's levies, the grain shortages I'd read the reports, but numbers didn't teach hunger. I thought of Aeris sneaking midnight cookies, Arion whining if supper ran late. Five-year-olds shouldn't understand want; plenty of children did.

"I can't decree blanket amnesty today," I admitted. "But I can propose a path: a royal pardon board—equal parts crown jurists and elected magistrates. Its first task: review every rebel sentence under the old laws." I looked at Sable. "If we can't undo the past, we can start correcting it."

Silence bloomed. Then Sable inclined her head, slight but definite. "It's a start."

The rune winked out pledge complete, for now. Tension spilled from shoulders across the room. The phoenix banner on Sable's lapel glowed faintly, as if approving.

I exhaled and felt, with dizzy clarity, the circle's magic still thrumming. Not finished. It wanted something more.

Across from me, Sable frowned; she felt it too. Mutual Binding demanded equal risk. Almost unconsciously, my hand found Velka's. She startled, then laced our fingers.

I rose. "I have another offer personal, not political." My voice bounced oddly in glass space; everyone leaned forward. "Open debate is good, but so is open story. I invite Sable and any who choose to dine tonight at the palace. No protocols, no titles. Just people sharing bread."

Gasps. An unshielded dinner with rebels? My mother would faint; the steward might implode.

Sable's lips parted, then curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Breaking bread can be powerful magic," she said. "But if we come, we come as ourselves. No subtle insults. No poisoned courses."

"If someone poisons the pastries," Mara whispered loudly, "I'll stage a coup."

Sable actually chuckled. "Then, Princess, we accept."

The rune flared brilliant gold, then shattered into harmless sparks agreement sealed. Cheers erupted some delighted, others startled. Riven scribbled furiously; the twins danced, croissant-sword clutched overhead like a banner.

Velka leaned close, breath warm at my ear. "A dinner? You are fearless. Or doomed."

"Both?" I whispered back, shaking.

Outside the Pavilion, the garden sang with birds and possibility. Sable lingered by the archway. "Elyzara," she called.

I turned. She studied me not hostile now, just…curious. "Why risk so much trust on strangers?"

I found the answer where my fear lived. "Because someone once trusted me when I least deserved it." I glanced at Velka. "Because miracles often start with dinner invitations."

For the first time, Sable's smile reached her eyes. She nodded, turned, and melted into her waiting companions.

Velka exhaled. "You did it."

"We did," I corrected, heart soaring and sore. Tomorrow would bring critics, saboteurs, maybe war. But tonight, bread and stories might stitch one more seam in our torn kingdom.

Mara bounded up, clutching a new proclamation: "Emergency Pastry Procurement!" Riven followed with menu drafts; Elira muttered about seating plans that avoided culinary assassination. Aeris and Arion insisted on preparing a "diplomatic dessert," which judging by their past experiments would involve alarming quantities of glittering sugar.

Velka squeezed my hand. "Ready?"

I laughed terrified, exhilarated. "Let's go start a miracle."

And as we walked back to the palace, sunlight catching in the Glass Pavilion behind us, I dared to believe the world might bend toward peace not by grand destiny, but by small, stubborn acts of faith, one croissant at a time.

Back inside the palace, preparations exploded like celebratory fireworks only louder. Kitchens clanged as chefs debated antidote spells ("Just in case!"), footmen hauled extra tables to the lantern-lit terrace, and the steward begged Mara to commit, under oath, to "absolutely no juggling of custard pies during dignitary toasts."

I ducked into a side corridor for air. Velka followed, catching my wrist. "Hey," she murmured, voice a low anchor in the surrounding whirl, "breathe. Dinner's just dinner, remember?"

"Dinner with potential assassins, political rivals, and my jam-obsessed siblings," I corrected, though I managed a shaky smile. "Easy."

She brushed a stray curl from my forehead. "Easier than negotiating with gnomes."

I snorted. "Everything's easier than gnomes."

Footsteps clattered; Elira appeared brandishing parchment. "Seating chart emergency. Does Sable prefer left or right of center?"

"Wherever she can't stab anyone unnoticed," Mara called from down the hall.

Velka's laughter bubbled out, warm as mulled cider. "Center it is," she decided, eyes bright. "Everyone can see the knives coming."

I exhaled, tension easing. Perhaps that was the true spell tonight: not the wards or oaths, but our ridiculous, unwavering togetherness. If faith could be baked into pastry, we might yet feed a kingdom.