You know what's worse than demons?
Other babies.
Today, Duke Cattivo's third wife (Mother Dearest) decided it was time for me to "socialize" with other noble offspring.
A "playdate," she called it.
I call it an unauthorized battlefield summit.
"Fuoco, darling, it'll be so good for you to make friends!" she said sweetly, handing me to Millie like I was a decorative bread basket.
Friends?
Lady, I once made treaties with necromancers by carving my promises into their souls. I don't need friends. I need a throne.
Still, duty called.
Millie set down a soft velvet blanket in the garden, embroidered with prancing sheep and smiling suns, because apparently the battlefield of infant warfare needed to look wholesome.
I was placed gently in the center, like an offering to the gods of drool.
Across from me, my opponents assembled, each more grotesque than the last.
First:
Lord Roffleford the IV, heir to the House of Wiggleroot.
Possessor of cheeks that wobbled independently of his body, and a pacifier clenched between his teeth with the stubbornness of an old warhorse.
Second:
Lady Mimi von Glitterheim, princess of strategic giggles.
She had a parasol the size of her own ego, frilly socks, and an expression of planned mischief. She was the sort of baby who would cry strategically to get you executed.
Third:
Prince Bobo of the Riverlands, a literal cube of a child.
Neck? Nonexistent. His arms looked like ham hocks stuffed into ruffled sleeves. He wore a permanent scowl, like he had seen the face of God and found it unimpressive.
And finally…
Me.
The baby with eyes of molten ruby, born of a soul forged in the raging fires of the Nine Hells, now stuffed into a onesie embroidered with baby ducks.
Millie clapped her hands, cheerful and oblivious.
"Okay, everyone! Let's play nice!"
Play nice?
No, dear nanny.
This is war.
Mimi blinked innocently at me.
Fake. So fake.
I could smell ambition under that rosewater perfume.
Bobo drooled with a slow, ominous drip.
Intimidation tactic? Poorly executed.
Roffleford—oh, sweet Roffleford—let loose a fart so aggressive it rattled the decorative tea set behind him.
Battle cry acknowledged.
I sized them up quickly:
Mimi: high intelligence, low physical strength. Dangerous if backed into a corner.
Bobo: low intelligence, terrifying brute strength. Charge-type enemy.
Roffleford: high defense (due to body mass), but questionable in both offense and tactics.
My game plan formed instantly.
Seize power. Secure resources. Crush opposition.
Millie chirped again. "Let's share, okay, babies?"
I curled my tiny fingers.
Sharing is for the conquered.
A noblewoman—probably Mimi's mother, given the matching frills—leaned over the fence and whispered proudly, "Mimi is such a sweetheart! She just loves to give hugs!"
Lies.
Hugs are sleeper holds in disguise.
Bobo's nanny shouted encouragement from the side: "Go get 'em, little champion!"
What am I, chopped liver?!
Even Roffleford's butler—yes, he had a personal butler at age one—was fanning him dramatically with a tiny silk fan.
Millie, meanwhile, just sat in the shade with embroidery, humming a lullaby.
I have been abandoned.
Mimi was the first to move.
She approached, smiling sweetly, her tiny lace parasol twirling hypnotically.
"Baah," she said.
I narrowed my eyes.
Message unclear. Possible code?
She reached out her chubby hand—
And tried to pat my head.
An insult! An assertion of dominance!
I ducked expertly (read: I lost my balance and fell sideways) and rolled into a defensive position. Which mostly involved lying on my back like an overturned beetle.
Bobo took this moment to charge.
A full body, no-brakes charge powered by baby fury.
I stared him down.
Come, then. Meet your doom.
He barreled forward.
Mimi squealed and sidestepped.
Roffleford clapped and tried to eat his own sock.
And me?
I initiated my greatest move:
The Baby Roll of Evasion.
Using all my might, I rolled with intention.
I missed a tree root by inches.
Bobo tripped over it spectacularly and faceplanted into a mound of daisies.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Bobo wailed like a hurricane.
Victory.
Millie ran over. "Oh nooo! Poor Bobo!"
Collateral damage. Acceptable losses.
Meanwhile, Mimi had her eyes on the toy rattle left gleaming in the middle of the blanket. A weapon of prestige. A symbol of authority. And my new objective.
I shuffled toward it, dragging my body like a wounded, determined crab.
She reached out daintily with two fingers.
I lunged.
In a sudden, desperate move born from pure ambition, I bit the rattle and yanked it away.
Mimi gasped.
Roffleford burped.
Bobo continued crying dramatically into a nanny's skirts.
Millie snapped a sketch crystal photo, capturing my moment of triumph.
"There's my brave little Fuoco!" she said proudly.
Bravery? No, Millie. This is strategy. This is conquest.
I lifted the drool-covered rattle high above my head.
I, Fuoco Cattivo, sovereign of despair, had claimed the toy.
A baby monarch, crowned in saliva and victory.
And my enemies?
They could only watch and drool.