You are in the forests of New Mexico, 75 million years ago.

The humid air of the late Cretaceous basin clung to your skin, smelling of damp ferns and pine. You were tucked behind a dense cluster of cycads, holding your breath, as a massive shadow moved over the forest floor.

A Pentaceratops.

It wasn’t just large; it was overwhelming. It was walking on four thick, sturdy legs, holding its head—nearly ten feet in length—relatively low to the ground. The sheer size of its frill, adorned with delicate triangular spikes, cast a shimmering, translucent pattern in the dappled sunlight. It possessed five horns in total, but it was the two immense brow horns above its eyes that seemed to lock onto the landscape, moving with a calm, deliberate gaze.

The sound of its feeding was deafening—a crunching, snapping noise as it used its powerful, beak-like mouth to tear through conifers and ferns. It wasn't the frantic feeding of a small creature; it was the slow, steady consumption of a titan.

It stopped, suddenly, lifting its immense head. For a heartbeat, its eyes locked toward your hiding spot. You were paralyzed, realizing this creature was larger, more formidable than a Triceratops. The air around it felt electric…