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Akyta looked down at her hands, raw from gripping her plane's flight yoke; there was dirt on her gloves from another time.

The displacement instilled by jaunts through the timeline was something she hadn’t felt since before the Mirage Mountain tragedy: every member of her race was born with this ‘ability’, after all, and since then they’d all had to use it— by god, had they used it. It was an ‘Eternal War’ for a reason, wasn’t it? Circle 102, 1317, 22: in the span of weeks she’d spanned weeks, years, centuries, in the name of the Enkies, in the name of her life, in the name of revenge.

But the earth of her land— of the sons of ENKY, was pure and untainted. Timeless, one could say, even by the standards of one who leapt constantly through time.

Maybe it was a risk, returning to a circle or two before her birth. But if this act of desperation was going to be the end— flying into the Empire’s stronghold, its spires like metallic teeth in a gaping maw of traps, weapons, prisons— she had to feel it through her fingers. If only one last time.

She flicked on her plane’s audio recording function, then seized the yoke in her hands once more.

"Akyta Dryad. Circle Zero…"