Jennifer had told him he put too much on his son’s shoulders.

He had the day’s power to allocate. A fractional bonus to one of his items. The kind of thing that likely wouldn’t make a difference, but felt important.

Weapon? To better hurt the thing?

Helmet, to better understand it, think faster in a pinch?

Boots? To move out of the way?

Breastplate, something he’d neglected. Potentially to turn something lethal into something he could survive. He was struck by the thought of dying in muck, partially paralyzed, and he thought of Kel.

He infused the breastplate, channeling the power in there, hand over heart.

He’s every bit like you. Every good part.

He stared at the approaching storm, then dropped down to the ground, pulsing boots on and off to lower himself.

I do this for him.

⊙

Boots, was the thought, as the tail snaked around him. The Leviathan had him, and he’d been just a little too slow to get out of the way.

If he’d infused the boots, then maybe.

He was flung, with a force he knew would kill him. He used his boots to try to slow the movement.

He didn’t die. Things around him flickered, then dissipated. No rain, no dust, no debris. The crowd of people around the space was a blur, viewed through a screen that was beaded with an uneven layer of water. The crowd mutated, drew close, disappeared, each of those things happening in eyeblinks.

No, was his thought, and things around him moved in the time it took him to form that thought.

The tail end of that single word was coupled with the dawning realization he had power available. Not one day, not ten, not fifteen, not thirty or sixty or ninety—

No! was the follow-up thought. His hand couldn’t meet anything before he had another ninety or more days pass. Instead, he pushed power from head to helm.

He didn’t get to choose what happened. But what happened made sense.

His thoughts slowed, and though his body was trapped in time, moving with glacial slowness, those ninety days of accumulated power were spent in the helm, giving him control over the speed of his own thinking.

Which put him in the circumstance of being trapped, unable to do anything but think.

Initially, he fought. He had some residual power, like change left over after he’d spent the bulk on his helmet, and that power was spent on boots, on weapon. As if he could force himself free with enough power from the boots or enough offensive power from his spear. His Arclance, as the PRT had dubbed it.

Now he was aware of the days moving past him at normal speeds. The world beyond was mottled, pollen and dust and construction materials settled on the surface of the globe.