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

It is a truth universally unacknowledged by etiquette tutors that a formal state dinner can feel exactly like walking into a dragon's mouth except the dragon, in this case, is a long, gleaming banquet table laden with potential diplomatic explosives. I stood at the threshold of the lantern-strung terrace, my newly un-jammed hair pinned in wobbly braids, a speech tucked somewhere between my ribs and my racing heart.

Inside, everything glittered too brightly. The setting sun spilled gold across crystal goblets; chandeliers dangled from spell-wrought branches overhead, enchanted wax dripping upward instead of down. Dozens of faces noble, rebellious, or simply hungry turned toward me with expressions ranging from curiosity to open apprehension. Sable's delegation filed in with the silence of trained shadows, while my own court rustled like restless parchment.

I took a step; magic hummed beneath the marble, a polite reminder that every ward in the palace watched. Velka hovered to my left, ink-dark and self-possessed. Mara, already installed midway down the table, gave a clandestine thumbs-up and mouthed "Breathe." Elira set a stack of emergency conversation prompts beside her plate ("If negotiations stall, ask about preferred biscuit textures"). Riven lurked by the musicians, scribbling footnotes to history.

The twins bless them had been placed at the very far end with explicit orders not to weaponize the cutlery. Aeris waved enthusiastically, nearly decapitating a bread roll. Arion, resplendent in a miniature sash reading "DIPLOMAT OF DESSERTS," practiced solemn nods.

Verania and Sylvithra stood when I reached the head of the table. My mother's nod was tiny but potent, like the first flake before an avalanche; my mother-in-all-but-name's smile carried equal parts pride and reminder not to ignite any international incidents before soup.

Sable took the seat opposite mine, her expression unreadable save for the faint crease of intrigue near her eyes. The circle rune from the pavilion had left a ghost glow on her cuffs, a silent testament: we were bound now, if only by fragile words.

"Welcome," I began, projecting steadiness I did not entirely possess. "Tonight we share bread in hope disagreements will share solutions just as easily."

A murmur of assent moved around the table. Servants glided forward bearing baskets of warm rolls and by Mara's tireless campaigning the first platter of treaty pastries: jam-swirled buns marked with tiny phoenix and crown sigils.

Sable regarded hers as though it might hiss. "Symbolic," she mused.

"Digestible diplomacy," Mara declared from halfway down. "Try it with cherry glaze guaranteed to disarm hostility or cause a minor sugar coma."

An ambassador from the eastern archipelagos coughed politely. "Your Highness, might we open with a toast?"

The steward ever watchful presented silver goblets. I lifted mine, the crystal singing. "To listening before judgment. And to jam uniting kingdoms."

Laughter softened the tension; even the stoic smith from the North cracked a grin. We drank, and the dinner began in earnest.

Carrot-ginger consommé arrived in translucent bowls. I'd approved the menu personally, favoring dishes too light to hide daggers but flavorful enough to distract guests from politics for at least several spoonfuls.

Conversation flowed like cautious water. The Tax Audit Delegation discussed grain routes with a southern duke; Elira sparred, gracefully, with a Phoenix student over charter language ("Subsection three cannot legally include interpretive dance, no matter its artistic merits"). At my left, Velka murmured occasional translation for a dwarven envoy whose trade tongue was rusty but whose sense of humor, fortunately, sparkled.

I turned to Sable. "You asked why trust. Let me ask you: what would convince you this table isn't a trick?"

She stirred her soup, steam curling like soft sigils between us. "Consistency. Today's promise, tomorrow's action. You offered amnesty review. I need to see prisoners freed families reunited."

My stomach clenched, remembering cells far beneath the palace some filled by orders I could never justify. "I've petitioned for immediate release of non-violent offenders. The board meets at dawn."

Velka's hand brushed mine under the table: silent support. Sable noted the gesture, a flicker in her gaze I couldn't decipher envy? Approval? Both?

"The North will watch," she said. "If you keep that promise, we'll keep ours."

Agreement hung delicate as spun sugar. Across the table Mara attempted to discreetly catapult a butter pat at Riven to reinforce morale; it ricocheted off a serving spoon and landed in the lap of the eastern ambassador, who blinked, then calmly applied it to his bread. Crisis averted—barely.

Roast pheasant with lemon-herb glaze emerged next, accompanied by root vegetables charmed to hum pleasant lullabies (a controversial addition; the potatoes sang slightly off-key). As plates were served, the palace steward approached with a message scroll. I unfurled it beneath the table. Border Garrison reports renewed unrest outside Stonepass. Request instructions.

Fear stabbed, swift and precise. I met Velka's eyes; she read the worry before I spoke. Leaning close, I whispered, "Stonepass is Sable's stronghold. Someone's provoking a clash tonight of all nights."

Velka's mouth thinned. "Could be factions hoping dinner fails."

I folded the message, mind spinning. If I sent troops, the truce might shatter. If I ignored it, villagers could suffer.

Mara, ever a master of inconvenient timing, rose with a dessert spoon like a scepter. "Esteemed guests! Before pudding, a brief cultural demonstration of "

"No," Elira said, yanking her back into her seat.

I stood instead. All gazes shifted, forks pausing mid-bite.

"An urgent matter," I said carefully, "demands transparency. Reports of unrest at Stonepass reach us now. I will not hide letters under linen." I laid the scroll on the table. "We address this together."

Sable rose. "Stonepass is under Phoenix protection. Let me reach my people. We can calm it without blades."

"On one condition," I said. "My envoy neutral observers go with yours. Velka Nightthorn will lead them."

Velka blinked; surprise flashed, then steady acceptance. Around us, whispers sparked sending the princess's rumored paramour into rebel territory? Scandalous brilliant dangerous.

Sable considered, then inclined her head. "Agreed. At first light."

The circle of guests exhaled. The rune from the Pavilion glimmered faintly on Sable's cuff again as if acknowledging a new pact.

Dinner resumed, conversation sharper but strangely hopeful. Even the potatoes harmonized.

At last, silver domes lifted to reveal the pièce de résistance: a towering trifle layered with phoenix-red berries and royal-gold custard, crowned by spun-sugar wings. The twins cheered; Mara wiped an actual tear.

Sable's lips quirked. "You weaponize confectionery, Princess."

"Better sweets than swords," I replied, slicing the trifle. I served her first a symbolic gesture then Velka, then the scarred smith, until the circle was complete.

As spoons clinked, I felt something settle less a treaty, more a tentative breath. Maybe nothing tonight would stop the storm. But alliances, like cakes, build layer by layer.

Sable set her spoon down. "If tomorrow succeeds, will you consider a summit in the North? Where the crown listens on our soil?"

"I will," I promised. "And I'll bring jam."

A ripple of laughter, genuine, rolled around the table. Even my mother smiled, the tight worry easing for a heartbeat.

The guests departed under heavy escort, diplomacy-fatigued and sugar-sated. I watched Sable vanish into the night, flanked by Phoenix banners that no longer felt like threats but challenges: keep your word.

Velka appeared at my shoulder. "At dawn, Stonepass?"

"I trust you," I said, voice hushed in candle-glow. "Take Mara and Elira Riven if he insists. Show them we keep our promises."

She brushed my cheek. "And you? Court full of vipers."

"I've dealt with worse," I said, thinking of sentient shoes and jam rebellions. "Besides, I have secret weapons."

Two small shapes barreled down the hall Aeris with quills for new treaties, Arion brandishing a replacement croissant-sword. They tackled my knees, shouting, "Did we save the kingdom yet?"

"Almost," I laughed, scooping them close. "But we'll need fresh pastries in the morning."

Velka's gaze softened. "Then we'll come back and finish the miracle."

She bent, pressed a quick kiss to my forehead (scandal for any lurking courtier), then strode into shadow, already half-legend. I watched until torchlight swallowed her.

Tomorrow would test every vow. But tonight, in the hush of a palace that smelled faintly of berries and possibility, I allowed myself one deep, steady breath.

Leadership, I reminded my younger, frightened self, is persistence and sharing dessert with the enemy until they're not an enemy anymore.

I carried the warmth of that thought and the last spoonful of trifle into the oncoming dawn.

Dawn's first blush seeped through high windows as I reached my chambers. I set the spoon beside a half-finished map of Stonepass berries glinting like captured sunrise and traced a new route for hope: from palace to pass, from pastry to peace.

Outside, the corridors murmured with preparations: boots thudding, wings of messenger owls unfurling, the quiet clink of Velka's departing expedition. I closed my eyes, tasting sweetness and steel on my tongue, and whispered a promise to the waking kingdom: hold together. For the first time, the echo that answered felt like the land itself murmuring back, We will.