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

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if a kingdom appears peaceful, its rulers are probably missing the real disaster entirely. In this case, the disaster in question was brewing not only in the distant villages and restless city quarters, but also most disconcertingly in the teacups of the royal drawing room.

Queen Verania , First of Her Name, Defender of Protocol and Dread of Political Fops, tapped her spoon three times on the rim of her porcelain cup. Each tap was precisely measured, as if she could marshal order into existence through sheer rhythm.

Sylvithra, poured herself a second cup, then a third. She had always preferred tea as a strategy: it was a beverage best drunk slowly, while watching the world unravel at a controlled pace.

The fire crackled. The air was thick with the perfume of burning cedar, polished silver, and the faint, indefinable tension that hovers just before a thunderstorm or an argument.

Verania set her spoon down, meeting Sylvithra's steady gaze. "I want a report. Not the sanitized one from the Chancellor's Office. The truth."

Sylvithra's eyes twinkled. "I'm not sure you'll like it."

"I didn't ask for 'likable.' I asked for 'useful.'"

Sylvithra considered this, then produced a small packet of letters—crumpled, stained with wax, some singed at the corners. "Intercepted just this morning, Your Majesty. Apparently, someone's been teaching the Phoenix Study Group how to code their correspondence. Badly. But with flair."

Verania slid the letters toward her, her fingers tracing the crude little phoenix sigil drawn on each. "Students."

"Students and staff," Sylvithra corrected, stirring honey into her tea. "The unrest is spreading. Pamphlets distributed in secret. Subtle sabotages in the kitchen and the archive nothing explosive yet, but enough to prove intent."

Verania snorted. "Intent is overrated. Revolutions are rarely as clever as their authors hope."

Sylvithra arched an eyebrow. "That sounds like denial."

"It sounds like experience." Verania riffled through the letters, reading aloud in a wry, clipped voice. "'Down with the crown! End hereditary privilege! Pie for all!'" She glanced up. "Was the last slogan your doing?"

Sylvithra's lips twitched. "I never campaign for pie. Too sticky."

The Queen sighed, pushing the letters aside. "How soon before the faculty aligns openly with the students?"

Sylvithra considered, tapping her fingers to a silent waltz. "A month, perhaps less. The unrest is coordinated, but clumsy. There are outside hands at work, but the heart of it… is homegrown."

"Explain."

Sylvithra looked suddenly, uncharacteristically weary. "Verania, they're not wrong. The taxes are high. The city's been uneasy since the last trade war. Elyzara's generation has grown up watching us put out fires with gold and clever laws. They want something… real. Change."

Verania scowled, swirling the last dregs of her tea. "Revolutions aren't real, Sylvithra. They're excuses. An attempt to write history in someone else's handwriting."

The Consort's mouth twisted, more sad than sardonic. "And you? How do you want history to remember us?"

There was a pause just long enough for both women to consider the weight of legacy, and of daughters.

Verania stood abruptly, pacing to the tall windows that overlooked the moonlit city. "My father said kings are made in chaos, not comfort. I always thought that meant I should be ready for war. Not… this."

Sylvithra followed, standing beside her. "Perhaps it means you should be ready to listen."

"I listen. Every day, I listen to sycophants, to advisors, to scheming minor lords—"

"But not to the ones who are afraid to speak," Sylvithra cut in quietly. "Not to the ones who send anonymous pamphlets because they think it's the only way to be heard."

Verania stiffened. "They have a voice. I have never—"

"Not their voice." Sylvithra's hand came to rest lightly on Verania's. "Elyzara's voice. Our daughter sees things neither of us do. She's not afraid of the world changing, Verania. She was born for it."

A moment of silence, heavy and full of unsaid things.

Verania swallowed. "She's just a child."

Sylvithra smiled, a soft, almost wistful thing. "She's a child who negotiated a truce with sentient hedgehogs last week. I couldn't have managed that at any age."

Verania turned, lips quirking despite herself. "She inherited your stubbornness."

"She inherited your sense of justice. Even if she calls it 'improvising.'"

There was a knock at the door. A page entered, bowing so low he nearly collided with the carpet. "Majesties, the Headmistress of Arcanum requests your presence. She says the matter is urgent and involves enchanted silverware, protest pamphlets, and a missing school mascot."

Verania pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course it does. Tell her we'll be there shortly. And fetch my cloak—the one without the jam stains."

The page scurried out, footsteps echoing.

Sylvithra looped her arm through Verania's, her smile sharpening. "Shall we go save the kingdom? Or at least the cutlery?"

Verania took a long, steadying breath. "We save the kingdom first. The cutlery can wait its turn."

As they swept down the hall, Verania felt the peculiar mix of dread and delight that only high-stakes politics could provide. She didn't trust half her council, three-quarters of the faculty, or, frankly, her own reflection before breakfast but she trusted Sylvithra, and, increasingly, she was beginning to trust the world they'd built together. Even if the world seemed hell-bent on tearing it all down.

Halfway to the door, she paused. "Do you think Elyzara is ready for this?"

Sylvithra squeezed her hand. "No one is ever ready. But she is not alone. That's what matters."

In the grand hall, the portraits of long-dead monarchs eyed them with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. Somewhere outside, the city rustled with the promise of change.

Verania squared her shoulders, head high. If the world wanted rebellion, she would meet it teacup in one hand, sword in the other, and her heart stubbornly, impossibly, hopeful for the child who would one day rule in her stead.

"Let's go see what sort of trouble our daughter's started this time," she said, and together, they stepped into the gathering storm.

The palace corridors stretched out before them, echoing with the faint murmur of distant music some minor noble's soiree, no doubt and the much less dignified racket of a disgruntled goose in the courtyard (a recent diplomatic gift, currently objecting to the color of its pond). Verania ignored both, her thoughts moving faster than her feet.

At the great marble landing, Sylvithra paused to adjust Verania's cloak, brushing off imaginary lint with the careful attention of someone who'd rather fuss than worry aloud. "You know, it's odd," she mused, "how rebellion always arrives on the smallest feet. Hedgehogs, children, spoons."

Verania's mouth twitched. "Don't forget pamphlets. And jam. There's always jam."

They stepped out into the night, the city beyond the palace walls glittering like a thousand secrets waiting to be discovered or, more accurately, like a thousand problems waiting to be solved. The air was brisk, carrying the scent of autumn and revolution. A faint glow hung over the academy grounds in the distance: torches, magical lanterns, perhaps even fireworks if the students had found the stash again.

As they walked, a familiar figure hurried to meet them: the Headmistress of Arcanum, trailed by two harried assistants (one clutching a ledger, the other a bucket containing what looked suspiciously like a wailing ferret).

"Majesties," the Headmistress began, her hat askew and her robes covered in mysterious flour, "I apologize for the lateness, but we are in the midst of what can only be described as a full-scale insurrection by both the cutlery and the lower forms."

Sylvithra suppressed a laugh. Verania was less charitable. "Explain. Briefly."

The Headmistress produced a crumpled pamphlet. "It started with the Phoenix Study Group, but now we have enchanted forks reciting revolutionary slogans, portraits holding debates about tax policy, and someone has replaced the school's anthem with a rather passionate ballad about social equality. Also, the school mascot a magical goat is missing. The students are refusing to attend classes until their demands are heard. And," she hesitated, "there are rumors they've taken hostages."

Verania raised a brow. "Hostages?"

The Headmistress grimaced. "Professor Butterwick and the entire Biscuit Committee. The students have barricaded themselves in the bakery."

Sylvithra tried and failed to look solemn. "Negotiations?"

"The committee has sent a list of demands. Most are for more inclusive snack options. And… for Elyzara to address the assembly."

Verania's breath caught. "Our daughter is to speak for the crown?"

"Apparently, they trust her to listen," the Headmistress said, softening. "And frankly, so do I."

A brief silence. Verania glanced at Sylvithra, who gave her a look equal parts pride and mischief.

"Fine," Verania said, squaring her shoulders. "Let's meet these rebels, then. If there is to be a new order, I will see it with my own eyes. But if anyone sings about pie again, I will personally lead the counter-revolution."

The trio made their way across the moonlit lawns, passing students armed with nothing more than banners and seditious cookies. The night hummed with expectation: a kingdom on the brink of change, a school on the verge of glorious, ridiculous chaos.

Inside the bakery, the "hostages" were sipping tea and playing cards with their captors. Biscuit crumbs carpeted the floor. Elyzara stood at the head of the flour-dusted table, her friends flanking her like a court of unruly ministers.

Verania's heart squeezed, seeing her daughter standing tall uncertain but unbowed, eyes alight with a mix of fear and fierce determination. She looked more herself than ever: not the child they'd tried to shelter, but the young leader the times had summoned.

Elyzara caught her parents' gaze. For a moment, all the roles queen, consort, rebel, child dissolved, leaving only family and the hope that, somehow, they would get this right.

The Headmistress cleared her throat. "Your Majesties, the floor is yours."

Verania stepped forward, searching Elyzara's face for the child she'd once held in her arms, finding instead the future she'd tried so hard to prepare.