“I’ll handle it,” Corvus says, already moving over to the pressure pad. Despite my mixed feelings about his return, I’m grateful he’s here now, when we need him. He’ll do what’s necessary.

“But—” Lyre turns toward me, and cuts off with a gasp. Her head whips back toward the ramp, and her face goes white. “Oh, stars, I see it now.” She shrinks back against the wall. “We’re dead,” she whispers. “Aren’t we?”

“Scorpia, get to the cockpit,” Corvus says. He, at least, isn’t losing his shit yet, but I feel like I’m about to.

“I will.” But I can’t bring myself to move. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take off without knowing if they made it. We’re already leaving Momma behind. I’m not sure how much more loss I can take right now.

The twins are fast, legs pumping them over ice and stone much more quickly than the rest of us could move, but the cloud is gaining on them. My heart thuds in a steady, rapid beat, and a mantra in my head matches its pace: please, please, please. One slip, one stumble, and they’ll never make it.

When Corvus hits the pressure pad early, I nearly lurch forward to stop him before I see his intent. This damn rusty ramp is always slow, and it’s slower still when it’s half-covered in ice and snow. It creaks upward slowly, slowly, as the twins cross the last stretch of ground to the ship and the deadly, shimmering air looms up outside.

Drom makes it first, leaping to clear the partially shut ramp and stumbling to a stop against the wall beside Lyre. She whips around to watch Pol dive in after her, landing belly-first in the cargo bay with a grunt and a clink as his helmet hits the floor. A few moments later, the ramp shuts behind him.

Outside, I picture that black cloud devouring us—but there are no signs of the shimmering air within the ship. Maybe it’s only a matter of time, yet I can’t bring myself to run for the cockpit. If this thing is going to worm its way into our ship, we’re already doomed. For now, I just want us all to be together.

Once he catches his breath, Pol climbs to his feet. His helmet is unstrapped and askew, one glove on and the rest of the suit still bundled in his arms. He lets it drop to the floor and leans against the closed ramp door, his breath fogging up the inside of the visor.

“We can’t take off yet,” he says in between pants. “Not without Momma. We have to… we have to…”

He trails off. My response dies in my throat as I see him raising his ungloved hand and staring down at it.