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

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.

If there is anything more terrifying for a young royal than leading a magical school through a biscuit-fueled revolution, it is the moment when one's parents fix their full, regal attention upon one's love life.

I Elyzara, would-be peacemaker, recently accused of "diplomatic snuggling" felt my courage leak out the soles of my shoes as Verania's gaze narrowed in that special, maternal way that promises both justice and a complete lack of privacy. Sylvithra stood just behind her, hands folded with the serene patience of someone who knew interrogation was a delicate art best enjoyed with refreshments.

The Headmistress, wise in the ways of royal drama, made her escape with the Biscuit Committee in tow, leaving a lingering scent of cinnamon and collective dread. My friends attempted to blend into the bakery wallpaper (with the exception of Mara, who gave me an encouraging double-thumbs-up and a "You're doomed" grin).

Verania surveyed the room, ensuring no one would interrupt. She gestured toward a floury bench by the ovens. "Sit, Elyzara. We need a… conversation."

I sat, feeling very much like a condemned tart awaiting judgment. Velka, caught in the act of stealing a biscuit, froze, then slowly sidled over to my side, standing a little too tall, a little too casual.

Sylvithra offered us tea. "Would you like lemon, darling? Or perhaps a calming potion?"

"Both," I squeaked, then cleared my throat and tried again, channeling my inner princess. "Thank you. Lemon is fine."

Verania didn't sit. She paced. "We have heard rumors, Elyzara. Rumors involving moonlit gardens, stolen moments, and… clandestine hand-holding."

"Hand-holding?" I said, hoping humor would serve as a shield. "We're revolutionaries, Mother. It's practically in the job description."

Sylvithra smiled gently, though her eyes missed nothing. "Your mother means to ask about Velka."

Velka stiffened beside me, her defenses prickling to life. She gave a quick, elegant bow. "Your Majesties. If I may—"

Verania held up a hand. "You may not. This is not a duel, Miss Nightthorn. It is a conversation about the welfare of our daughter and, by extension, the kingdom."

Velka nodded, a touch of shadow magic curling at her fingertips in a nervous tic. I wished I could reach for her hand, but with both my parents watching, I settled for brushing her wrist with my little finger a tiny rebellion, almost invisible.

Verania's eyes softened for a heartbeat, then hardened. "Elyzara, are you… together?"

Every portrait in the bakery seemed to lean forward. Even the enchanted spoons stopped their mutinous rattling.

I drew a steadying breath. "Yes, Mother. We're… together. Or as together as two awkward, traumatized ten-year-olds in the middle of a magical insurrection can be."

Sylvithra stifled a smile, but Verania was made of sterner stuff. "How long?"

I exchanged a glance with Velka, who mouthed, "Since the garden?" I nodded.

"A week," I said. "Maybe a lifetime. It's hard to tell in this place."

Verania pressed her lips together. "And you believe this is wise? The Nightthorn line no offense, Miss Nightthorn has a history of… complicated alliances."

Velka straightened, her voice cool but respectful. "Your Majesty, my intentions are honorable. I care for Elyzara deeply. I would never hurt her. Even if she does have questionable taste in midnight snacks."

That last bit was for me, and I couldn't help but snort.

Sylvithra leaned in, always the diplomat. "Elyzara, this is not about disapproval. It is about trust. About understanding the risks. Love, especially young love, can be… dangerous."

I bristled. "With respect, Mother, everything in my life is dangerous. Love is the only thing that feels real."

For a moment, the room stilled. Even the ghosts seemed to wait.

Verania sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We are not forbidding you from seeing each other. But the world is watching. Your choices both of you will be scrutinized, twisted, used against you. You must be careful."

Velka bowed again. "Understood. We are many things, Your Majesty, but not fools."

I reached for her hand, emboldened by a wild, reckless hope. "Thank you, Mother. We will be careful. And brave. And possibly reckless, but never alone."

Sylvithra poured more tea, her voice gentle. "If you must make mistakes, at least make them together. And tell us when you need help."

I met her gaze, relief bubbling up in laughter. "Deal."

Mara, sensing the mood had lightened, crept closer with a floury grin. "Does this mean the biscuit rebellion is over? Or are we staging a coup for jam tarts next?"

Verania rolled her eyes regal, long-suffering, and still a little uncertain. "You may keep your jam tarts. But let's have no more secrets, please."

The bakery, in that moment, became a place of small, impossible miracles: forgiveness, trust, and the awkward, hopeful beginnings of something that might one day be called love.

Jam, it turned out, is as sticky as loyalty, and both tend to linger long after the cleaning spells have done their work. As the scent of burnt sugar and rebellion faded, my friends and I found ourselves alone with my parents, our hearts still thumping with the kind of relief that leaves you light-headed and reckless.

Mara—who could not stand a silence unless she'd caused it herself was first to breach the new peace. "Well, that was only mildly mortifying. Should we declare victory and go home? Or does someone want to break into the kitchens for celebratory pudding?"

Riven, always practical, eyed the remnants of the Biscuit Committee's stockpile. "We're already in the kitchen, Mara. If you're not stealing pudding now, you're doing it wrong."

Mara grinned, flicked flour at him, and set about investigating the pantry, humming a tune whose lyrics—if my ears didn't deceive me—included both 'revolution' and 'whipped cream.'

Velka, still holding my hand, glanced sidelong at me. "Is it always like this with your family?" she whispered. "Or have I just witnessed some rare migratory event—like the return of the jam-legged kestrel?"

I grinned. "Oh, this is nothing. Wait until winter. The annual Great Cake Debate nearly caused a schism with the southern provinces last year."

Sylvithra, listening with one ear while reassuring the head baker that no one was being exiled, handed me a cup of restorative cocoa. "Elyzara, darling, you and your friends should rest. There will be more questions in the morning. Possibly a formal announcement. And a great deal of speculation from the gossip pages."

I winced. "Can we at least bribe the chronicler not to mention the jam?"

Verania snorted. "If we could bribe the chronicler, do you think we'd have survived last year's incident with the enchanted cheese?"

That set Mara off on a fresh bout of giggles, and even Velka's composure cracked as she tried, and failed, to maintain a straight face. It was all so surreal danger and love and laughter so tightly knotted together that I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

The castle clock struck midnight, its chimes echoing through the warm, yeasty air of the bakery. For a moment, everyone stilled, as if listening for a new story to begin.

Verania approached me, dignity warring with motherly tenderness. "You know, Elyzara, when you were a baby, you hated being put down. You would scream the palace down until someone usually your father picked you up and carried you everywhere. I used to wonder if you'd ever learn to stand on your own."

I flushed, feeling far younger than I had during the whole revolution, but she only smiled. "Now look at you. Standing tall, and yet, you still know when to reach for a hand. That's harder than it looks."

Velka squeezed my hand a little tighter. "She's better at it than most adults I know, Majesty."

"High praise from a Nightthorn," Sylvithra observed, teasing.

Velka bowed, almost managing not to blush. "We're not completely heartless. Contrary to rumor."

A comfortable hush fell over us. Mara returned, bearing a tray of dangerously wobbly desserts. "Peace offerings, in case the ghosts of the Biscuit Committee rise at dawn."

Riven selected a tart, looked at it suspiciously, and ate it in one bite. "Not poisoned. Mara, you're improving."

I glanced at my parents, and found not the judgment I'd feared, but an odd kind of acceptance, stitched together with anxiety and pride. For the first time, I felt not just tolerated, but believed in.

"Are you really alright with this?" I asked, softer than before.

Verania's answer was a sigh, half exasperation, half relief. "No. But I'm learning. You will make mistakes, Elyzara. Some will be public, some private. Some will hurt you, some will heal you. But you're ours. And we'd rather face it together than pretend we can keep you safe by keeping you small."

Sylvithra brushed my hair from my face, like she had when I was little. "Besides, love is the only thing that gets stronger the more you risk it. The world needs more of that, not less."

Mara handed out slices of victory cake to everyone even my parents. "To surviving the first public interrogation of the season!" she declared, raising her fork like a sword.

Velka caught my eye, and in that look was a thousand silent conversations: reassurance, mischief, the knowledge that tomorrow the world would still be waiting, but tonight, at least, we were safe.

Riven, for once, didn't make a joke. "To more impossible miracles."