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

As dawn's first pale smear bled into the courtyard sky, I found myself wondering exactly how many revolutions in recorded history have ended with powdered sugar on every available surface. Probably none; I intended to set the precedent. The Treaty Festival's "Cakes at Sunrise" proclamation had begun as Mara's delirious brainwave, but somewhere between midnight and morning it metastasized into a logistical testament to folly and optimism. We had trestle tables groaning beneath towers of pastries, cauldrons of chocolate, and, inexplicably, a cheese wheel carved into the likeness of the phoenix crest Arion's contribution after three uninterrupted hours alone with the palace sculptor.

The court baker, a stoic woman normally unmoved by royal absurdities, had declared a personal vendetta against gravity. Her pièce de résistance: a croquembouche shaped like Stonepass Keep, each custard-filled choux gilt in edible gold leaf. It leaned ominously, like the real keep after last year's minor earthquake. I prayed neither would collapse in front of foreign dignitaries.

Guests rebels and loyalists alike looked bleary-eyed yet delighted. Sharing pastries at sunrise is apparently an unbeatable sedative for rampant suspicion. Sable had posted two Phoenix sentries by the archway, but they stood with hands clasped rather than swords drawn. Progress.

I circulated armed only with a silver pastry tong. My ceremonial armor (confiscated after I used the pauldrons as serving trays) had been replaced by a simple velvet coat. It felt right: power stripped of pretense, at least for breakfast.

Lord Vastrid cornered me near a pyramid of cinnamon rolls. "Your Highness, please confirm the rumors are false there's talk of abolishing the Dowager Import Duty and redistributing the surplus to border granaries."

"They're entirely true," I said, selecting a cinnamon roll with surgical precision. "Have one; it's flavored with fiscal responsibility."

He sputtered. I escaped into a knot of Phoenix students still shyly alternating jam recipes with palace pages. A small victory danced in my chest.

Velka materialized at my side like a comforting shadow. She looked impossibly composed for someone who'd ridden through the night, negotiated with angry townsfolk, and escorted half a delegation through potential ambushes. I handed her the cinnamon roll; she raised an eyebrow but bit in anyway.

"I keep waiting," she confessed softly, "for someone to shout 'Seize her!'' or 'The jam is poisoned!' But everything's… quiet."

"Not quiet," I corrected, gesturing to the twins leading a pastry-laden conga line behind Sable. "Just cheerfully chaotic."

She pressed her shoulder against mine. "Promise me we'll remember this next time swords come out."

"Promise." The word tasted as sweet as the icing melting on my tongue.

Sable disentangled herself from the twins and approached with the confident stride of someone who knew precisely how many daggers were on her person. "Princess, Lord Vastrid reports you're defunding his ceremonial footmen?"

"Not defunding," I clarified. "Redirecting their stipend to the Stonepass soup kitchens. They can apply for positions as literacy tutors if they wish."

Sable's lips twitched half amusement, half disbelief. "You're dangerous."

"I'm economical."

We shared a grin and, for a heartbeat, I felt an echo of what we could be: not enemies forced to parley, but women hammering a fractured realm into shape with stubborn goodwill and carbohydrates.

A trumpet sounded one polite note. The steward, bleary but determined, emerged atop a crate of profiteroles. "Attention! Her Highness invites all to witness the signing of the Culinary Armistice Addendum!"

Mara dragged a parchment longer than a picnic blanket into view. It bore exactly three clauses, each illuminated in sticky fingerprints:

All treaties henceforth shall be commemorated by shared pastry.

No pastry shall be weaponized without unanimous consent.

Jam neutrality must be respected across provincial lines.

Riven claimed it would make future historians weep with joy or despair; either way, he promised bestseller footnotes.

I stepped onto the crate beside the steward. Lanternlight and the newborn sun met in a shimmer across hopeful faces rebels who'd feared gallows, nobles who'd feared irrelevance, children who'd feared empty plates. All now waiting to see if a joke could become law.

"Friends," I began, voice surprisingly steady, "last night we broke bread, discovered nobody poisoned the custard, and decided the world didn't end when enemies danced. Today, we sign something silly on purpose to remind ourselves that empires rise and fall, but breakfast is constant. Let this parchment prove we can agree on crumbs; tomorrow we'll conquer bigger battles."

The crowd chuckled, but the laughter didn't hide their gratitude; relief shimmered brighter than any torch.

Sable produced a dagger steel polished to a mirror edge. A hush fell. She met my eyes; I nodded. Instead of cutting throats, she sliced the tip of a strawberry tart. "Ink," she declared, dipping her quill into the filling.

I did the same with lemon curd. We signed side by side. Lord Vastrid looked perilously close to fainting, which I considered an added benefit.

Velka signed last, using chocolate ganache. The parchment absorbed the sweet inks, shimmering crimson, gold, and brown: a rainbow of improbable peace. When the steward held it aloft, voices erupted in cheers and, because Mara cued the minstrels, in impromptu pastry anthem.

While the courtyard flooded with celebration, I retreated behind a pillar, heart pounding from adrenaline, sugar, and a creeping fear I'd miss something vital. Velka joined me, licking custard from her thumb.

"Enjoying your reign of confectionery terror?" she teased.

"I'm terrified," I admitted. "This is… flimsy. One arrow, one rumor "

She cut me off with a look soft as dusk. "Flimsy, maybe. But stronger than silence."

I slumped, fatigue seeping under the merriment. "How do we keep it?"

"Same way you started it," she said. "With stubborn persistence and enough cake to make betrayal inconvenient."

I laughed, and some coil of tension unwound. Hope might be fragile, but apparently it had a sweet tooth.

A runner wove through dancers, breathless. "Message from the southern mines, Highness unrest quelled, thanks to news of amnesty review."

Another wave of relief. My knees nearly buckled; Velka's arm steadied me.

"See?" she murmured. "Pastry diplomacy spreads faster than fear."

Maybe. The realm's wounds were centuries deep; no amount of jam could stitch them overnight. But every healed village, every passed loaf, was a stitch nonetheless.

The sun climbed, gilding banners, melting icing. As the festival wound down, children napped under tables and nobility pretended not to enjoy sticky fingers. I realized I hadn't thought of prophecy or transmigration or the looming crown all morning; I'd simply been in my life, messy and sweet.

Sable approached one last time. "We ride north tomorrow. I'll bring your grain convoy home safely."

I clasped her forearm. "Come back for the next treaty. I promise éclairs."

"Dangerously generous." Her smile held something new trust, maybe. We parted with more warmth than formality.

As cleanup began brooms chasing rogue crumbs I climbed the palace steps, pausing to absorb the tableau: rebels folding tables with guards, nobles stacking pastry trays, Aeris asleep on Arion's shoulder, croissant sword drooping. A kingdom taped together with sugar and stubbornness.

Beside me, Velka whispered, "Half-baked miracle accomplished, Your Highness."

I squeezed her fingers. "The palace kitchens will never forgive us."

"Let them file a grievance," she replied. "We'll answer with cupcakes."

The marble corridor swallowed our footsteps, echoing softly beneath high arches. In alcoves, stained-glass knights cast mottled rainbows on our clothes like silent, colorful confetti congratulating questionable choices. Servants bustled past carrying trays of half-eaten pastries destined for the city shelters; even excess, tonight, had a purpose.

At the landing, we paused before the great window overlooking the gardens. Dawn's gold had given way to full morning, illuminating every breadcrumb-sparkling path. Birds hop-scavenged crumbs, blissfully unaware they were feasting on nascent policy.

Velka's gaze lingered on the view, then slid to me. "When you first asked me to stay, I thought honestly you'd tire of stubborn shadows at your side."

"I collect stubborn shadows," I said, leaning against the stone. "They keep me from stumbling into my own."

She smiled, equal parts wicked and soft. "Then brace yourself: you just inherited the most persistent shadow in three provinces."

A warmth unfurled behind my ribs as terrifying as it was exquisite. I opened my mouth to answer, but an urgent clatter of boots interrupted.

Riven skidded to a halt, parchment flapping like distressed wings. "Apologies, but the Finance Minister requests clarification: are pastry expenditures eligible for defense credits under the new 'Custard Deterrence' clause?"

Velka emitted a choked laugh. I pinched my nose. "Tell the minister pastry is henceforth classified as peacekeeping provisions."

Riven scribbled furiously, then glanced up. "And the royal sculptor wonders if the croquembouche keep should be preserved heritage value, apparently."

"Seal it in sugar lacquer," Velka advised. "Future generations must understand our strategic folly."

Riven bowed and dashed away.

Alone again, I exhaled the last ragged edge of tension. "We survived the festival. Now begins the harder work: audits, convoys, councils that won't be bribed with cake."

Velka traced an idle pattern on the windowsill rune-loops for courage. "Hard work tastes better after victory crumbs." She faced me fully, eyes midnight-bright. "And you won't face it alone."

I reached up, brushing a stray sugar crystal from her hair. "Stay stubborn, Nightthorn."

Her lips curved. "Always."