Help! My Moms Are Overpowered Tyrants, and I’m Stuck as Their Baby! - Chapter 52

Chapter 52: A Feast of Sugar and Regret
He doesn’t die.

Yet.

Riven, to his own evident shock, is still breathing. He looks at his hands, as if expecting them to start dissolving at any moment. When they don’t, he exhales long and slow, the kind of exhale one gives when they realize they’ve somehow survived the impossible.

[Disappointing.]

My parents, of course, do not look impressed. Verania sighs into her wine, while Sylvithra watches Riven like she’s mentally filing away ways to rectify this failure.

“Interesting,” my mother murmurs.

Riven, still pale, manages a weak smile. “I—uh—thank you?”

Sylvithra hums. “We’ll refine the formula next time.”

He makes a sound that is probably not meant to escape a dignified guest at a royal banquet.

[I almost feel bad for him.]

Almost.

The next stage of the evening arrives with the subtlety of an army invasion.

The cake.

Or, more accurately, the monstrosity that someone dared to call a cake.

A procession of chefs enters the hall, each carrying a component of what can only be described as an architectural achievement. The main cake, towering over everything, is at least three layers high, decorated with elaborate sugar sculptures of dragons, castles, and what I think is supposed to be me though the sugar version of myself looks far too polite.

[They made you look soft. Unacceptable.]

The entire banquet watches as the chefs very carefully place the cake onto the grand table, stepping back as if expecting it to explode.

I stare at it. “Why is it so big?”

Verania, looking pleased, gestures grandly. “It must match your presence, darling.”

Zareth leans forward. “You think if I stab it, it’ll fight back?”

Seraphina sighs. “Must everything be a battle with you?”

Riven, who is clearly still processing his barely avoided execution, mutters, “Honestly, I hope it does fight back. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing tonight.”

The head chef, wiping nervous sweat from his brow, steps forward. “Your Highness, would you like the honor of cutting the first slice?”

I glance at the knife. Then at my parents.

Then back at the knife.

[Oh, please do something dramatic.]

I take the knife with slow deliberation and just for effect stab it straight into the center of the cake.

The entire hall gasps.

The nobles tense, as if I have just personally declared war on sugar itself.

The cake, of course, does not fight back.

Disappointing.

Verania sighs, shaking her head. “Such grace, dear.”

Sylvithra nods approvingly. “Efficient.”

I slice a piece cleanly and place it on my plate. The nobles, now reassured that the cake is not, in fact, a magical beast waiting to devour them, begin serving themselves.

Riven takes a bite first, hesitating only slightly, as if this might be where the poison was hidden.

His face shifts. “Oh.”

I pause mid-bite. “What?”

He blinks. “It’s… actually good.”

Zareth, skeptical, tries his own piece. He chews. Then shrugs. “Not bad.”

Seraphina, ever composed, takes a small bite. Her brow furrows, as if she’s confused by the fact that something in this palace isn’t an instrument of terror.

Riven, looking slightly betrayed, gestures at me. “Why is this the one thing in your castle that isn’t designed to kill people?”

Verania, sipping her wine, responds smoothly. “Because we only poison things that aren’t sweet enough already.”

Riven looks down at his fork. “…Not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.”

[Both.]

The banquet continues. Nobles make strained attempts at conversation. My parents subtly glare at anyone who looks at me for more than three seconds. My grandparents exchange amused glances, as if waiting for something to go horribly wrong.

And then, inevitably, we reach the next stage of this exhausting evening.

The gifts.

A large table has been prepared, stacked with presents of every imaginable size. The nobles have outdone themselves exotic artifacts, rare jewels, enchanted weapons that are clearly meant to ingratiate rather than impress.

I settle back in my throne, half-curious, half-exhausted. “Alright. Let’s see what the people have wasted their money on.”

The first noble approaches, a small, trembling man whose title I do not care to remember. He bows so low I half expect him to fall forward.

“Your Highness,” he squeaks, “I present to you a necklace crafted from the tears of a siren.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You made a siren cry for this?”

He hesitates. “Well, collected the tears, rather—”

I stare at the necklace. Then at him. “How do I know they’re not just regular tears?”

He freezes.

The entire hall watches.

He swallows. “I… I assure you, Your Highness, they are authentic.”

I smirk. “If you say so.”

I accept the gift. The noble nearly collapses in relief.

The next noble approaches. Another bow. Another excessive display of devotion.

“Your Highness, I offer you this enchanted dagger. It is said to cut through anything.”

Zareth perks up. “Anything?”

The noble nods eagerly.

I glance at the dagger, then at my cake.

Then back at the dagger.

The noble visibly regrets his choice.

I pick up the knife. Test the weight. Then, with calculated slowness, press the blade against the plate beneath my cake.

It does not cut through the plate.

I raise an eyebrow.

The noble turns pale.

Seraphina, watching, sighs. “Did no one test these before bringing them?”

The noble stammers. “It—it is a very selective enchantment—”

I hand the dagger back to him.

“Try harder,” I say, unimpressed.

He flees.

The gifts continue. Exotic silks. A book of ancient curses (which I actually keep). A strange golden egg that I think is supposed to hatch into something terrifying.

I hear a thud.

I turn.

Riven has placed something on the table.

A small, simple wooden box.

No embellishments. No signs of wealth.

Just… a box.

I tilt my head. “What is this?”

He scratches the back of his head, looking nervous again. “Uh. Your gift?”

The hall stares.

I slowly open the box.

Inside, wrapped in a simple piece of dark fabric, is a silver ring.

Not extravagant. Not enchanted. Just a smooth, carefully polished silver band.

I blink.

Riven fidgets. “I, uh—I made it. Myself.”

Silence.

Absolute.

Dead.

Silence.

Verania leans forward, eyes sharp. “You made something for my daughter?”

Riven freezes.

Sylvithra’s gaze is unreadable. “How bold.”

The nobles collectively stop breathing.

Riven, realizing that he is once again a step away from death, looks at me, pleading.

I stare at the ring.

Then at him.

Then at my parents.

And smirk.

I slide the ring onto my finger.

“Interesting.”

[Oh, you are evil. I love it.]

Riven exhales.

The nobles do not.

This night just got so much better.