"Dead air," he grunted, wings beating heavy now as he fought back into a smoother layer. "Pocket. I didn't see it."
"Maybe open your eyes, then," she said, voice ice‑cold.
He didn't answer. He was too busy flying. And now that she was paying attention, she felt the difference. Before, his movements had been smooth, almost lazy—glider work. Now his wingbeats hit harder. The muscles under her thighs and knees bunched and released with more force. His breathing, which had been steady background sound, was louder, rougher, pushing out against the rush of air.
He was getting tired.
Kaya's eyes narrowed against the sting of wind. "How long can you keep this up at this height with two extra bodies?" she asked.
"Long enough," he said automatically.
"That's not an answer."
Silence stretched between wingbeats. Finally he ground out, "In clean air? Hours. Like this?" A small dip in his line, immediately corrected. "Not hours."
