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

The first hours after Velka rode for Stonepass tasted of ink and nerves. I stood at my balcony in the half-light, watching her party become pinpoints on the road, and wondered how a heart could feel both hollow and overfull. Then the palace rooster crowed horribly off-key, as usual and reality barged back in wearing yesterday's jam stains.

There would be no heroic dash to the border for me. My battlefield today was parchment, protocol, and the courtiers who made poisoned roses look cuddly.

I reached the Small Council chamber just as Lord Vastrid self-appointed Champion of Traditional Misery was explaining why my concessions to Sable constituted treason, a bad seasonal omen, and possibly an affront to the gods of accountancy.

"Your Highness has flung open the gates to chaos," he declared, moustache trembling like an aggravated ferret. "First tariffs, next the throne!"

"Have you considered," I asked sweetly, seating myself, "that chaos was already inside the gates? It merely acquired jam and a seating chart."

A ripple of muffled laughter danced down the table; Vastrid puffed like a bellows. Beside him, Lady Anstria leafed through ledgers, looking for numbers sharp enough to stab me.

I summoned my calm Velka's steady touch in absentia and slid a document forward. "This is the interim pardon review. Signatures from crown jurists and magistrates elected by three provinces. If you have objections, write them legibly. In triplicate."

Mara would've been proud of the sparkle those last words produced. Vastrid subsided, muttering about dangerous new handwriting.

Next came Ambassador Qorun, who bowed with the grace of a bored heron. "Princess, my emperor requests clarification: are open jam treaties standard in your diplomacy? He is… interested."

"Entirely standard," I said. "Though we also offer honey for special alliances. I'll send recipes."

Elira, stationed behind me as silent adviser, coughed what might've been a laugh. I passed her the honey dossier for translation into diplomatic niceties.

By mid-morning I'd parried three trade delegations, re-costed the grain levy, and blunted an assassination of character (mine) by producing incontrovertible proof that yes, the treasury really could afford rebuilding Stonepass's bridge if we stopped gilding ceremonial chamber pots.

As always, victories were tiny, frantic bites taken out of leviathans. But for once, each bite left a little space for hope.

Only after escaping the council did I realise I'd missed breakfast. My stomach staged a rebellion of its own, so I fled to the lesser kitchens, where the scent of cinnamon and diplomacy still lingered.

Aeris and Arion had colonised the far counter, rolling dough with the solemn intensity of siege engineers. Between them, a sign read:

PEACE PASTRIES IN PROGRESS DO NOT DISTURB (UNLESS TASTING).

"Emergency snack?" Arion asked, brandishing a heart-shaped cutter like a royal seal.

I sank onto a stool. "Emergency kingdom snack."

They pressed a pastry into my hand: soft, warm, stuffed with spiced apples. Sweetness and comfort in two bites. My siblings' smiles filled cracks diplomacy never reached.

"We're practising," Aeris said importantly. "So when you bring Sable here again, she likes our food and stays polite."

I hugged them both, flour be damned. "If the world stays polite because of your baking, you can have the throne."

Arion's eyes went huge. "But I thought you were queen!"

"Not yet," I said. "And hopefully not for ages. Plenty of time to perfect frosting coups."

They giggled and returned to battle with the dough.

Refuelled by sugar and sibling resolve, I headed for my study only to find a messenger owl perched on my desk. It wore a black ribbon: urgent from Stonepass. My pulse lurched.

I unrolled Velka's concise script:

Riots contained before dawn. Minimal injuries. But found evidence of saboteur inside palace coded missives in Stonepass cipher. Watch your walls. –V.

Inside the scroll, a small shard of obsidian glimmered Nightthorn message stone, etched with a warding rune to break minor curses. Protection from afar. My fingers curled around it, heat of fear meeting cool volcanic glass.

Saboteur inside? A traitor feeding chaos at home while diplomacy brewed abroad. Perfect.

I pressed my forearm to the desk, breathing through the flare of dread. "All right," I muttered to nobody. "Add traitor hunt to the day's itinerary."

Riven appeared, as if summoned by narrative necessity, lugging a stack of council minutes. "Something wrong?"

"Possibly everything." I handed him the stone and note. His eyes widened.

He adjusted spectacles. "Shall I… begin discreet interviews?"

"Discreet," I repeated. "And consult Mara she's fluent in chaos." He nodded, flushed at the promotion to clandestine investigator, and fled.

Elira ghosted in next. "I saw the owl."

"I need a list of everyone with recent access to Stonepass codes," I said. "And quietly reinforce archives security. If sabotage creeps through our walls, books will burn next."

She bowed. "I'll marshal librarians. Fear not they're terrifying when roused."

I almost felt sorry for any spy facing armed archivists.

Afternoon sun slanted across stained glass by the time quiet returned. I stood again on the balcony overlooking the training yard where Velka once bested three knights with a practice staff, all smirk and grace. The spot felt emptier without her shadow stretching beside mine.

Wind tugged at parchment still clutched in my hand. I reread Velka's final scrawl Watch your walls and pictured her leading a neutral envoy through tense streets, defusing riots with the same calm that had steadied me yesterday. A ridiculous surge of pride overtook fear.

Below, the gardener chased a wayward rosebush that had uprooted itself for an exploratory stroll; the sight was so absurd I laughed aloud. This palace, with all its faults, was alive messy, magical, heartbreakingly hopeful.

I whispered into the gust, "Come home safe, Nightthorn."

The wind, irreverent as ever, whipped the words away toward Stonepass.

By dusk, Riven returned, cheeks flushed. "We traced parchment fibres on the saboteur notes royal scriptorium blend. Only high scribes have it. Mara's staging a distraction to test who sneaks off."

My reply was interrupted by an explosion of feathers and jam from the corridor Mara's distraction apparently involved a "surprise dessert duel." I sighed, half exasperation, half admiration. Spies beware: there is no stealth around my friends' chaos.

Elira emerged later with ink-stained fingers and triumph in her eyes. "Scribe Ormath. Quiet, pious, recently overpaid. We have proof."

The arrest was swift, the confession stammered: Ormath, bribed by an unnamed northern patron, passed troop movements to incite panic. No one was surprised—only saddened. I ordered a fair tribunal, no dungeons in darkness. Change meant mercy, too.

Exhaustion set in like slow frost. I walked back to my room alone, corridors hush-soft. In my palm, the obsidian shard pulsed faintly Velka's heartbeat across miles.

At my door, a final surprise: a plate covered with a napkin. Lifting it, I found a single croissant, glazed in jam, folded into the shape of a phoenix cradling a crown. A note in Mara's scrawl:

For when courage needs carbs. –Your ridiculous army

Tears pricked, but I laughed, ate half in two bites, and tucked the rest beside the Nightthorn stone symbols of two halves of one miracle.

I lay down, armour of worry loosening, and let sleep claim me with the taste of pastry and promise lingering on my tongue.

Sleep found me quicker than usual, but it didn't keep me. I woke well before dawn, pulled from a dream of phoenix-shaped croissants circling Stonepass's walls. For a moment I couldn't tell whether the flapping in my chest was panic or hunger.

Moonlight pooled over the desk, illuminating two treasures: the half-eaten pastry and Velka's obsidian shard. I ran a thumb across the cool rune-etched surface; it hummed faintly, as if sensing my restlessness. No new message pulsed through, which I chose to read as good news.

Still clad in nightrobe and resolve, I padded to the window bench. Below, the courtyard lay hushed—torches guttering, banners limp. Beyond the gate, the northern road was only a ribbon of silver. Somewhere out there, Velka was negotiating riots with more grace than most people managed over tea.

I pressed the shard to my lips. "Don't be heroic alone," I whispered into the dark, half a prayer, half an order.

A faint rustle answered—just the wind tugging palace ivy. But it felt like a promise carried back: I hear you.

Breath steadied, I unfurled the map of Stonepass on my knees, tracing routes with a fingertip. I pictured Mara's irreverent grin blunting fear, Elira's precision catching every lie, Riven's frantic notes becoming tomorrow's reassurance. Impossible odds seemed… slightly less impossible when I could slot each friend into the plan like bright, stubborn chess pieces.

A floorboard creaked. Aeris appeared, clutching a lantern covered by her dressing gown. "Can't sleep," she said, settling beside me without invitation. A second shadow Arion slid in after her, dragging a blanket and two still-warm apple rolls clearly stolen from the night kitchen.

"We're keeping watch," Arion announced, stifling a yawn. "In case nightmares attack."

I laughed softly and drew them into the blanket. Three heads, one map, a quiet conspiracy of siblings against doubt.

Aeris pointed at the parchment. "That's where Velka is?"

"For now," I murmured.

"We sent bravery with her," Arion said around a mouthful of stolen pastry. "She'll bring it back."

Moonlight caught his sugared grin, and something inside me unclenched. Perhaps courage did travel both ways carried by stones, by crumbs, by unshakeable belief.

We kept vigil until dawn painted the sky blush-gold. No owls arrived; no alarms sounded. Just a sunrise gently unfolding over a kingdom that, for one fragile hour, felt held together by pastry crumbs and promise.

I let the map curl shut and hugged the twins close. "Thank you," I whispered, unsure whether I meant the pastries, the faith, or the simple fact that neither of them ever let my hope fall asleep on guard duty.

Maybe all three.