Villainess is being pampered by her beast husbands-Chapter 386 --.

"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."

"Translation," Kaya said, "you have a limit and we’re walking straight into it."

"Flying," he muttered.

"Don’t get smart with me when you’re panting," she shot back. "You push past what your wings can take, we all fall. So you’re going to tell me ’before’ that happens when you need to land."

He didn’t like that. She could feel the argument coil in his back, the way his shoulders tightened.

"Kaya—"

"This is not a pride discussion," she cut in, cold and flat. "You’re carrying me, him, and whatever is wrong with my eyes right now. You misjudge and black out in midair, I don’t have a backup vulture in my pocket."

Another strong wingbeat. Another thin shiver in his frame.

"Fine," he said at last, bitter. "There’s a ridge before the land drops to the south. Old stone. I can reach it if the wind doesn’t turn."

"How long?"

He hesitated, then answered like it hurt. "Half an hour. Maybe less if I don’t have to fight more dead pockets."

Kaya did the math fast. Thirty more minutes of this strain, then a small, hopefully safe place to crash on. Veer’s back was already starting to tremble under constant load; even perfectly adapted birds burn through energy when they’re heavy and the air is thin. [3][4]

"Good," she said. "You get us there. If you feel anything go wrong before that, you say it. I don’t care if it bruises your vulture ego."

Behind her, Cutie made a soft sound, half‑asleep, like he was trying to agree with her even unconscious.

Veer let out a harsh breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. "Yes, ma’am."

"Don’t ’ma’am’ me," Kaya said. "Just don’t drop."

His only answer was a deeper pull of his wings and a small adjustment in angle as he aimed them, silently, toward that unseen ridge—and whatever came after it.

The ridge showed up first as a darker line against the lighter grey of the sky, a long, uneven back of rock cutting across the land.

"There," Veer rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over stone. "Hold tight."

Kaya didn’t comment. Her arm around Cutie’s waist stayed locked, her other hand still buried in Veer’s neck feathers. She felt every beat of his wings now—no more lazy gliding. Each downstroke was a hard shove against the air, muscles under her knees jumping with effort.

As they neared the ridge, the air turned ugly again.

Wind slammed up the slope, hit Veer’s chest, rolled over his wings. The ridge face threw the air back in pockets and curls. Birds landing on cliffs have to adjust fast in that last stretch; if they misjudge the wind, they hit rock instead of the ledge. [1] Veer dropped lower, angling so the stone rose in front of them instead of below.

"Don’t fight it too close," Kaya said, eyes narrowed, measuring distance and speed without thinking. "Give yourself space."

"Working on it," he gritted out.

The ridge’s top was a jagged row of broken teeth. Veer’s shadow skimmed over them, then circled once, twice, searching for a length of flat enough rock. His wings shook in a gust; he corrected, but the movement wasn’t as clean as before.

Kaya felt that. His back had started a fine, constant tremor, the kind that said the muscles were done but the brain was refusing to listen. If he tried this landing more than once, he’d burn whatever he had left.

"First try," she said, voice low but firm. "You don’t get a second. Pick a line and take it."

He let out a rough sound that might have been agreement, then banked.

The chosen stretch was a long, slightly sloping shelf near the middle of the ridge—wide enough they wouldn’t have to land on a knife edge, high enough to make climbing away harder for anything on the ground. Wind clawed at them as they approached. Veer tilted his wings, bleeding off speed; his whole body adjusted angle by small degrees, like he was wrestling the air into the right shape.

"Brace," he croaked.

Kaya dragged Cutie even closer, flattening his chest to her back. Her fingers dug deeper into feathers. The shelf rushed up at them.

Veer flared his wings at the last moment, huge pinions snapping open to grab as much air as possible, killing forward speed. The impact still hit hard. His talons slammed into the rock, claws scraping for purchase. Weight drove through his legs and into the stone.

Kaya felt the jolt all the way up her spine. Her teeth clicked together. Cutie’s chin bumped her shoulder; he let out a low noise but didn’t wake.

For a terrifying half‑heartbeat, Veer’s body lurched forward, momentum trying to throw them all over his own head. He slammed his wings down once more, using them as brakes, claws gouging furrows into the stone as he dug in.

Then they stopped.

Silence rolled in behind the wind, huge and sudden. Veer panted, sides heaving. The tremor in his frame went from faint to obvious now that he wasn’t fighting the air.