Pyrra stood by the doorway with a stack of folded towels in her arms, watching her son 'study' But the longer she stared, the harder it became to keep a straight face.
Drake was not simply studying.
He was suffering.
He sat at his little desk with his fire-pattern blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a war cloak, one hand gripping his hair, the other clutching a pencil like it was a weapon. His eyes were wide, unblinking, staring at the math sheet in front of him as though it had personally betrayed him.
His head shook left and right as he muttered something under his breath.
Pyrra pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh. But she couldn't help it. Her son looked like a baby general preparing for battle.
"What are you doing, baby?" Pyrra finally asked, walking toward him with a deliberately serious face, placing the towels on the bed.
