Help! My Moms Are Overpowered Tyrants, and I’m Stuck as Their Baby!
Chapter 210: The Art of Listening to a Revolution

Chapter 210: The Art of Listening to a Revolution

Dawn arrived in a haze of grey and gold, limping like a court jester after a particularly vigorous masquerade. The palace and academy thrummed with the electric tension that comes when everyone knows history is about to change, and no one is certain if they’ll end up a footnote or a punchline.

I, Elyzara, newly minted face of the regime and recent survivor of a bakery uprising, awoke to find three court messengers at the foot of my bed, a magical schedule floating overhead, and Mara perched on my windowsill eating contraband brioche.

The corridors were already choked with nervous students, red-eyed councilors, and the sort of minor nobility who showed up only when dramatic failure seemed likely. Outside the throne room, I passed a knot of foreign diplomats some watching with concern, others barely hiding their excitement at the spectacle. In the far corner, a pair of dignitaries from Drakonia wagered on whether the meeting would end in a magical duel or a group therapy session.

My parents, Verania and Sylvithra, were moving through the morning like generals before a siege. Servants dashed about with urgent trays and half-finished reports, dodging the Headmistress, who muttered about “insubordination, insurrection, and a missing mascot” like a culinary curse.

The air was thick with expectation, worry, and the faint aroma of burnt scones.

Before the inevitable public spectacle, I was summoned to the royal council room, where my parents awaited me like judges at the world’s oddest talent show.

Verania eyed me. “There are calls for reform. Professors, students, even the Guild of Enchanted Cutlery have joined in. And,” she added, voice dry as old parchment, “the ambassadors are watching closely. We cannot afford a misstep.”

Sylvithra was gentler. “You have an opportunity, Elyzara. The first words spoken today may shape the kingdom for a generation.”

I wished, rather desperately, for invisibility. “So… no pressure.”

Verania only smiled. “None whatsoever.”

My friends staged an intervention in the dressing chamber.

Mara, conspirator-in-chief, thrust a plate of enchanted breakfast pastries at me. “Eat the brioche. It boosts confidence. Or so the baker claims. Ignore the side effects, unless you start singing about ducks.”

Elira fussed over my robes, which were—thanks to Mara’s night of sabotage now enchanted to shift color depending on my mood. “Try to stay calm,” she murmured. “Otherwise, you’ll clash with the drapes.”

Riven, already in stitches from his own prank backfiring, handed me a cup of “Clarity Tea,” brewed from five different magical plants and possibly a sixth he couldn’t identify. “It’ll help you speak the truth. Which is, in itself, a kind of magic. Also, don’t drink too quickly, or you might confess to crimes you haven’t committed.”

Velka, ever my anchor, sat me down and took both my hands. “You don’t have to be perfect, Elyzara. You only have to be honest. Besides, if things go wrong, we can always set the curtains on fire and claim diplomatic immunity.”

My stomach somersaulted as I bit into the brioche, felt confidence bloom, then panic, then the urge to recite epic poetry about breakfast. “If I run, will you trip the Chancellor for me?”

Mara grinned. “Gladly.”

The mood was light, absurd, fragile as spun sugar but beneath it ran the current of real fear, real love. The friends who would fight for me, laugh with me, and if needed—hide the evidence.

The Grand Hall was overflowing. Professors lined the walls, students squeezed together on enchanted benches, and the assembled ambassadors watched from a gallery heavy with magical wards and diplomatic protocols.

As I walked onto the dais, my robe blazed a nervous sky blue, shifting to lavender as I caught Velka’s reassuring smile. My parents sat on their thrones one regal, one quietly fierce, both betraying the same anxious pride.

The Headmistress gave a brief, formal introduction. Then, with a flourish, she gestured me forward.

I opened my mouth.

At that moment, the chaos began.

A group of students in the back faces half-hidden by magical glamour rose as one. Their leader, a red-haired girl with a voice like cracked bells, chanted a spell. Instantly, illusory banners unfurled along the walls, and every surface flickered with rumors: the Queen’s “secret plans,” wild images of palace cruelty, stories of heroism and loss most untrue, all convincing.

A hush fell. The crowd began to murmur, shifting between skepticism and outrage. My robe flickered, rapidly cycling through pink, white, and a dangerous shade of puce.

Panic bubbled up, fierce and icy. I looked to my friends.

Mara, eyes bright with mischief, leapt onto a table and began belting out a revolution song in a voice so off-key that even the magical illusions wavered in distress. Elira snapped a spell, sending dancing motes of light spinning through the rumors, distorting them into rainbows. Riven, undeterred, launched into a sock-puppet dramatization of the day’s events.

Velka, calm as dusk, locked eyes with me. “Trust yourself. Speak.”

I swallowed, took a breath—and let it all out. “This is real,” I said, voice raw, “but not all of it is true. I am Elyzara, and I have made mistakes. I’ve lied. I’ve failed. I’ve tried to protect people and sometimes hurt them instead. I’m not perfect. None of us are.”

The illusions flickered again, confused.

“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. You want to be heard. I want that too. So let’s try something new: a table round, right here, right now. Each faction—students, staff, council, even the Guild of Enchanted Cutlery bring your grievances, your hopes, your demands. We’ll listen. We’ll argue. We’ll make this kingdom together, or not at all.”

There was a moment where the whole hall seemed to stop. Then, from the back, the rebel leader nodded, lowering her spell. The banners faded. Hope, cautious and sharp-edged, took its place.

My parents shared a look fear, pride, resignation, and something like awe.

The chaos after was glorious. Professors bickered with students, the diplomats scribbled notes, and the Guild of Enchanted Cutlery insisted on a treaty for utensil rights. Some parents fumed, others cheered. Mara nearly started a food fight but was narrowly restrained by Elira.

In the midst of it all, the confidence brioche kicked in a final time. I found myself declaring, with heroic gusto, “And if loving Velka Nightthorn is a crime, then I stand before you, guilty and glad!”

A silence. A gasp. Laughter. And then Velka swept me off the dais, grinning, her magic twining with mine in a burst of sparkles.

The world tilted in a way that felt both dangerous and exhilarating, as if we’d set fire to the entire etiquette manual and were now making up the next chapter as we went along. The enchanted benches hiccupped and slid sideways, causing a handful of overzealous councilors to tumble unceremoniously into a pile of revolutionary banners and a rather startled ambassador from the Mushroom Federation.

Velka landed us at the foot of the dais, her eyes alight with wicked delight. “Did you mean that?” she murmured, low enough for only me to hear. “The loving me part, not the crime bit.”

“Every syllable,” I whispered back, and this time my voice didn’t tremble at all. “Even if I’m sentenced to a life of public embarrassment.”

She beamed, and the tightness in my chest loosened just enough to let the world in, wild and hopeful and impossibly bright.

Above us, the Headmistress cleared her throat with the force of an amateur thunder mage. “If you two are finished making history and terrifying the diplomats, perhaps we can proceed to the actual negotiations?”

The assembly, freshly tumbled and scandalized, broke into applause, a few cheers, and at least one ill-timed marriage proposal (quickly retracted when the proposer realized he was addressing the Queen’s dog). Mara whooped from the sidelines, tossing a roll in the air and catching it in her mouth with the precision of a circus performer. Elira rolled her eyes and began scribbling notes possibly a ballad, possibly a grocery list, one could never tell.

My parents, caught between horror and hilarity, shared a look that said: We have created chaos. And also, possibly, peace.

Sylvithra rose, composure perfect, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Let the council convene. Each voice will be heard yes, even the Guild of Enchanted Cutlery. Anyone who attempts sabotage will be turned into a decorative teapot until further notice.”

The rebel leader stepped forward, hands still faintly glowing from the earlier spell. “We’ll talk. We’ll listen. No more lies?”

I nodded, feeling the weight of that promise settle across my shoulders like a second, lighter crown. “No more lies.”

As the assembly divided into smaller groups, murmuring, arguing, and inevitably negotiating the fate of the mascot goat, Velka tugged me aside to a quieter corner beneath a stained-glass window.

She squeezed my hands, gentle now, eyes searching mine for doubt. “You were brilliant, you know. Not perfect. But true.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I nearly fainted.”

“Next time, I’ll catch you. Or, failing that, Mara will.”

We watched as Mara attempted to convince the ambassadors that jam was a viable negotiating tactic and Riven performed dramatic apologies to the council, still in his color-changing robe.

Hope felt fragile, a small thing trembling in my chest. But it was there surrounded by friends, family, and the raucous, magical mess of a kingdom learning to listen to itself.

“Ready for the next round?” Velka asked, squeezing my shoulder.

I looked at her, at my parents, at the chaos we’d conjured and the strange, beautiful peace that shimmered beneath it all.

“I think I finally am,” I said, letting a smile crack through my exhaustion. “But maybe we negotiate the mascot’s release before we attempt regime change.”

Velka laughed. “Deal.”