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

I was too tired to argue. So I just let him stay tail knocking over another chair and decided, miserably, to let Future Me deal with re-negotiating his magical leash.

My room now looked like a noble library after a tornado made of scales and feelings had rolled through it. Pillows were skewered. Books were nudged to dangerous angles on their shelves. My enchanted ink pot had somehow ended up inside one of Smaug's nostrils (he claimed it was for "storage"), and my favorite quill now rested tragically beneath his wing.

But Smaug was curled around me like a living wall of warm iron. One of his wings extended half over my blankets, his eyes normally bright with mischief were now heavy-lidded, twitching with exhaustion.

I reached up and rested a hand gently on the curve of his snout. His scales were warm, slightly rough, and thrummed faintly beneath my fingers with the pulse of ancient magic. He let out a little sound not quite a purr, not quite a sigh, but something in between.

Once upon a time, he would've snapped at my hand, snarled something rude, or asked if he could eat my enemies as an after-school snack. But now he just leaned into the touch. Gently.

"You've grown up a bit," I whispered, half-smiling.

He rumbled sleepily, voice muffled. "I only grew because you got hurt."

I paused, fingers still. "…That's not your fault."

"I wasn't strong enough to stop them."

"You're a dragon the size of a hallway rug what did you expect to do? Set fire to reality?"

He gave a noncommittal snort, smoke curling from his nostrils.

We sat in silence for a while. My room was dim now, the lanterns casting soft shadows on the curved ceiling. Outside the windows, night had spread fully stars dusted across a velvet sky, and the breeze whispered softly through the curtains, carrying the scent of distant roses and dew-wet stone.

"Thanks for coming back for me," I murmured, my voice almost lost beneath the weight of sleep.

Smaug didn't answer.

He was already snoring.

I lay there for a moment longer, buried in warmth and weight and slightly sulfur-scented dragon wing, then shifted carefully, extricating one arm and craning my head slightly to the side.

[He's finally down, huh?]

The system's voice slid into my head like a smug cat slipping through a half-open door.

"He cried on me," I whispered. "I think I'm emotionally traumatized."

[You're emotionally traumatized because someone loves you.]

"I didn't say it made sense."

There was a pause. Then, quieter:[He's bonded to you. Like… magically and emotionally. He'd die for you, Elyzara. Without hesitation. That kind of loyalty doesn't happen often. Don't mock it.]

I stared at the ceiling. The shadows from the lanterns danced like old stories I hadn't told yet.

"…I'm not mocking it."

[Good.]

Another pause.

Then I inhaled. "Tell me what I paid for."

The system's tone changed. It wasn't smug anymore. It was the voice it used when it stopped pretending to be just comic relief—when it was the voice of something ancient, powerful, and watching.

[You were taken by mercenaries. Hired blades. Nothing more than muscle and empty threats.]

"But?"

[But muscle doesn't move unless someone pays. And someone paid. Someone with influence. Someone who knows how to hide.]

I frowned, curling my legs under the blanket. "You're saying this wasn't random?"

[It was never random. You weren't just taken. You were targeted.]

I sat up a little, careful not to wake Smaug. My voice was sharper now. "Who."

The system hesitated.

[Elyzara… it's a web. A deep one. These people don't just want to hurt you. They want to erase your family.]

"Because we're 'tyrants.'"

[To them? Yes. You're the last link in a legacy they want to burn.]

My mouth was dry. "So who's pulling the strings?"

[I've narrowed it down to two leads. One is from the Council. The other… someone you've met. Someone close.]

That stopped me cold.

"Close?"

[Too close. But I don't have a name yet. Just shadows and suspicion.]

I leaned my head back against the wall, feeling the cold stone ground me. "So this isn't over."

[Not even slightly.]

I closed my eyes. "Then I want you to keep digging. Don't sleep, don't joke, don't pretend. Find them. All of them."

[You know I will.]

I opened one eye. "And if I don't get cake after this, I'm overthrowing the heavens."

[A wise and righteous cause.]

I smiled faintly, then glanced down. Smaug let out a little sleepy huff and pressed his massive head against my thigh. I smoothed my hand over the curve of his eye ridge. He twitched but didn't wake, a low rumble vibrating through his chest like a purring volcano.

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to simply breathe. To let the weight of the room, of what I'd endured, of what was still to come, fade beneath the comfort of a dragon nap and a warm bed.

Naturally, that peace lasted exactly six seconds.

The door swung open with all the subtlety of a war horn.

"Elly, darling, it's dinnertime!" came Verania's voice, far too chipper for someone who had literally gone to war the day before.

I groaned and pressed a hand over my eyes. "You could knock."

"I could. But where's the fun in that?"

Smaug stirred, blinking one golden eye open and fixing it on my mother like a judgmental sun. He grumbled, his tail twitching.

Behind Verania, Sylvithra leaned into the doorway with an elegant, entirely fake expression of innocence. "I did suggest knocking."

"You encouraged me to just teleport in."

"I said 'respect her space,' and you heard 'invade her privacy.'"

Verania grinned. "Same thing."

I sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from my face. "Is it mandatory?"

Verania crossed her arms. "Yes. You've been unconscious, kidnapped, traumatized, and apparently caught up in a bandit-led political conspiracy. You need roast duck. And possibly vegetables."

"I'll take the duck."

Sylvithra stepped inside and nudged Smaug's wing with her foot. "You too, lizard. No sulking in the room."

Smaug huffed and lifted his massive head with great theatrical suffering. "I require at least six naps after my emotional breakdown."

"You'll nap after dessert," Verania said firmly.

I dragged myself out of bed. Smaug flopped dramatically onto the floor like a dying star and then slithered after me in defeat.

The hallway was already loud. Which meant...

Oh no.

The moment we turned the corner toward the dining wing, chaos exploded.

"AERIS! STOP PUTTING FLOWERS IN GRANDPA'S BEARD!"

"I'm making him beautiful!" Aeris yelled, perched on a chair, crown of wildflowers in one hand and determination in her soul.

Eryndor sat still, completely stoic, silver-and-black beard now looking like a meadow during spring festival. "This is how wars start," he murmured.

Arion was underneath the table, crawling like a gremlin with a stolen bread roll clenched between his teeth. Ilythia was sipping tea calmly, completely unbothered. Veylen, for reasons unknown, had a spoon tucked behind his ear.

Saelira was braiding ribbons into someone's hair. Possibly her own.

I paused in the doorway, blinking.

Verania patted my shoulder. "Welcome home."

We sat.

Or we tried to.

Smaug immediately claimed two full chairs by curling up beneath the table and knocking them over in the process. The servants didn't flinch. They'd seen worse. One simply replaced the chair while Smaug licked the gravy boat.

Dinner was a blur of scent and chatter. Platters of golden roasted duck, candied root vegetables, silver bowls of creamy herbed potatoes, dishes stacked with honeyed carrots and purple rolls so soft they practically melted. Everything smelled like spice and safety.

I was halfway through my plate when Aeris slammed her hands down. "Can we PLEASE talk about the WEDDING?"

The entire table stopped.

Sylvithra put her fork down slowly. "What wedding?"

"Elira and Mara are in love!" Arion said proudly. "We saw them kiss!"

Smaug choked on a turkey leg.

Verania dropped her wine.

Eryndor cleared his throat. "We will now pause this meal for internal screaming."

Aeris looked indignant. "Why is no one excited? They're so cute! They said romantic things!"

Sylvithra blinked, turned to me. "Did you know about this?"

I held up my hands. "Nope. I was kidnapped. I missed the romantic subplot."

Arion was now holding up a napkin with crayon drawings. "Here's their wedding invitation! It's color-coded!"

Veylen looked at it thoughtfully. "You misspelled 'ceremony' as 'cinnamon.'"

"That's intentional," Arion said seriously. "The theme is dessert."

Smaug muttered from beneath the table, "I refuse to be flower dragon. I have dignity."

"No, you don't," I muttered.

"I DO!" he shouted, mouth full of stuffing.

The rest of dinner was a blur of arguments about cake flavors (Aeris demanded 'loveberry,' which does not exist), Smaug complaining about seating arrangements, and my parents making wild speculations about whether this counted as courtship in demon law.

By the time dessert arrived caramel flan with enchanted golden flakes my ribs ached from laughing.