You are in the volcanic forested lands of South Africa, 195 million years ago.

The air in the early Jurassic valley was thick, vibrating with a heat that forced even the predators to hide. You were trekking through a dried-up channel, shielded by a small sandstone ledge, when a subtle movement caught your eye. About twenty feet away, in a patch of remnant shade from a conifer-like tree, stood a Fabrosaurus.

It was a rare sight. It was small, barely three feet long from its beak to the tip of its slender, stiffened tail. It stood perfectly still on two long, thin legs, looking for all the world like a curious bird, yet its face was entirely reptilian—short, flat, with huge, dark eye sockets that seemed to hold a cautious intelligence.

It wasn’t alone. Another, slightly smaller individual emerged from behind a fern, moving with delicate, jerky steps. They didn't appear to be foraging; rather, they seemed to be waiting out the heat. One of them let out a faint, quiet hiss-click, a sound like dry twigs snapping, which was immediately returned by its companion.

For a moment, the pair looked directly toward your position. You froze. The two Fabrosaurus tilted their heads, their massive, dark eyes scanning the shade. They didn't seem afraid—perhaps they had no local predators in this specific, stifling moment…