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

Morning arrived on tiptoe rosy, feather-light, full of the deceptive hush that settles over a city before it remembers its worries. I'd watched the sky seep from ink to pearl with my siblings snoring against my shoulders, pastry crumbs dotting the map of Stonepass. I should have crawled back to bed. Instead, I eased Aeris and Arion onto a sofa, tucked the blanket around them, whispered a promise of pancakes, and slipped out into corridors that smelled faintly of candle wax and ambition.

A palace at dawn is a peculiar creature: half-asleep tapestries rustle more softly, marble floors echo like empty seashells, and every footstep feels like trespass. I padded past a suit of armor that saluted me out of habit and a disgruntled ghost librarian still muttering about "midnight pastry smuggling." Somewhere in the west wing, a page hummed revolutionary marching tunes while polishing silver evidence that Mara's cultural diplomacy had seeped deeper than expected.

My destination: the high watchtower, where messenger owls arrive first and rumors gather like dew. Riven, to my surprise, was already there, hair sticking out like startled straw, scribbling notes on the effect of altitude on diplomatic dispatch speed. He shoved a mug of tea into my hands without looking up.

"No news yet?" I asked.

"Only earl-morning gossip," he replied. "Kitchen staff are taking bets on whether Velka returns with a signed treaty or a pet riot dragon."

I sipped. "What's the spread?"

"Three-to-one on the treaty. The dragon odds improved after someone uncovered her childhood sketchbook."

We shared a grin quick, nervous, but real. When Velka had ridden out at dawn, an entire kingdom's balance seemed to ride with her saddlebag of documents and her implacable calm. I'd trusted her with my future; now I had to trust myself with the present.

I scanned the horizon: pale gold spilling over rooftops, merchants rolling carts down lanes, banners at the gates stirring. All ordinary. Yet each breath felt wound tight. Behind me, Riven kept writing, and I let the scratch of his quill anchor me.

An hour passed. Two. The sky brightened to full brass morning. Footsteps clattered on the tower stairs Elira, crisp uniform immaculate despite the early hour. She handed me a crisply sealed report.

"Saboteur confession recorded, sentences recommended." She angled a brow. "The tribunal meets at noon. You'll preside."

"Wonderful," I murmured. "Another chance to prove mercy isn't weakness."

Elira's mouth quirked. "Mercy is sometimes the sharpest blade."

I tucked the report under my arm. "Speaking of blades any word from Stonepass?"

"Not yet. But no distress flares along the ridge. No panic birds from village wardens."

Small mercies indeed. Elira left to marshal the librarians-turned-guards; Riven followed, eager to test new record-keeping charms. I stayed, alone now except for watchtower silence and the jitter in my bones.

Memory rose unbidden: Velka slipping into shadow at the gate, pressing the obsidian shard into my palm. Don't worry: I'll keep an eye out for your mistakes. Half joke, half vow. I hadn't slept since.

The first owl arrived mid-morning, streaking over rooftops as though chased by lightning. It landed on the parapet, huffing indignantly. Black ribbon urgent. My breath snagged.

"Easy," I whispered, unclasping the tiny cylinder. The parchment inside bore Velka's neat hand:

Stonepass secured. Riot quelled. Saboteur network exposed link confirmed to Ormath. Returning before dusk with delegation. P.S. Twins' pastries a diplomatic success. –V

Relief hit like suddenly released ropes. I laughed sharp, shaky, unexpected and the owl blinked as though offended by my outburst. I fed it a crumb from my pocket, sent it back with a single word attached: Safe.

Dusk. That gave me hours: to convict a traitor justly, to soothe terrified nobles, to prepare a welcome for rebels who might yet become allies and to practice looking composed instead of delirious with gladness.

The Great Hall had been re-arranged overnight: thrones removed, benches set in a half-circle, sunlit banners replaced by plain cloth to remind everyone that justice should outshine splendor. Lord Vastrid still brought his moustache; Lady Anstria page-turned with lethal intent; but they sat beside newly minted common magistrates farmers' guild representatives, a priestess of gentle storms, a young woman from the struggling weaving district elected just days ago.

Ormath, the trembling scribe, stood before us. Chains glimmered but lightly; I would not parade prisoners in irons as trophies. His confession, gathered by librarian-interrogators armed with citations, sat on the lectern. His crimes were grave espionage, inciting riot, smuggling codes but he had also confessed fully and named financiers higher up the chain.

"It would be easy," I told the tribunal, voice carrying through marble hush, "to demand his head and call it justice." My gaze flicked to Vastrid; he flinched. "But change must do more than punish it must prevent."

Deliberations churned like storm clouds. When votes tallied, the verdict delivered was exile instead of execution five years rebuilding Stonepass's ruined bridge network under guarded service, full pardon upon completion. A murmur of surprise rippled; harsher members bristled, but commons' magistrates nodded, satisfied. I carved the verdict with my seal: proof that mercy could be rigorous.

I caught Ormath's bewildered gratitude as guards led him away; hope, once more, in slivers.

Dusk spread mauve across the courtyard when horns sounded: the delegation returning. I hurried to the gate, heart sprinting ahead of feet. Velka rode at the column's front, dust-smudged, cloak snapping like a storm flag. Beside her trotted Sable, a quizzical smile ghosts couldn't manage on her lips. Behind them flowed townsfolk, Phoenix badges, palace banners different colors, same path.

Velka dismounted, eyes scanning until she found me. I expected decorum; instead, she strode forward and wrapped me in a fierce, wordless hug. Applause startled, warm rose from witnesses.

She whispered against my ear, "No dragons. But several very polite rioters." I laughed, half sob, half sunlight. She drew back, producing a satchel of scrolls. "Agreements. Signatures. And a personal note from Stonepass children requesting jam lessons."

Sable stepped forward, offered her hand. "Princess, the North will honor the truce. Your tribunal verdict reached us en route by mirror. That mercy traveled faster than our horses."

The courtyard flared with lantern light; Mara burst from the crowd waving a new banner: TREATY FESTIVAL CAKES AT SUNRISE! Elira sighed but didn't object; Riven scribbled titles about dawn and dough; Aeris and Arion launched pastry parcels into the sky like edible fireworks.

I half-expected the pastries to return as dive-bombs, but Sable caught one mid-arc, astonishment flickering into amusement as custard seeped between her fingers. "Your diplomacy is… unconventional."

"Reliable, though," Velka murmured, offering Sable a linen to wipe the custard. "No one starts a sword fight while juggling éclairs."

"An underrated deterrent," I said, accepting a jam-glazed truce bun from Arion. The boy saluted, crumb shower cascading onto his sash.

Around us, soldiers from both banners mingled in wary relief. A Phoenix scout and a palace guard discovered they'd grown up two villages apart; they were soon arguing whose bakery first invented honey-spiced rye. Somewhere, a lute struck tentative chords, tuning for celebration.

Lord Vastrid approached, moustache bristling at the pastry-littered cobbles. "Your Highness, surely there are protocols—"

"There are," I agreed, biting into my bun. "We're rewriting them. First clause: successful treaties must taste nice."

Mara whooped, thrusting the banner higher. Vastrid opened and closed his mouth, then stalked off, defeated by carbohydrates.

Sable edged closer, her voice dropping. "Stonepass still simmers. Merchants fear reprisals. We'll need grain relief within the week."

I nodded. "Already unlocked reserve silos. A convoy leaves at moonrise. And I'd like you to nominate a town elder to join the pardon board in the capital."

Sable's eyes widened not suspicion now, but something gentler. "You understand optics."

"I understand hunger," I corrected. "And how impossible it is to listen on an empty stomach."

She inclined her head. "Then we'll send Farin Blackwell. Stubborn as iron, but fair."

Perfect, I thought iron-willed fairness might hold our patchwork peace together.

The lute music swelled into a reel. Aeris tugged at Sable's sleeve. "Dance?" she asked, oblivious to protocol's corpse cooling at our feet. When Sable hesitated, Aeris deployed her ultimate weapon: the wide-eyed stare of unadulterated hero-worship. "Please? You saved Stonepass."

Sable laughed an unguarded, startled sound and bowed to her five-year-old partner. They spun under the lanterns, pastries whizzing overhead like comets. Even the stern professor from the Pavilion tapped his foot.

Velka curled an arm round my waist. "Look," she murmured. "One miracle, served warm."

"Half-baked," I corrected, resting my head against her shoulder, "but rising."

At the courtyard's edge my parents watched, hands clasped Verania's posture still regal, but her eyes softer than I'd seen since childhood. Sylvithra caught my gaze and mouthed, Proud, before guiding my mother into the dance.

The treaty banner dipped and swooped above us. Laughter tangled with lute strings. For one fragile night, a kingdom fractured by fear stitched itself together with frosting and courage.

I closed my eyes, committing every flicker of lamplight to memory.