You are in the coastal forests of Europe, 200 million years ago.

The mist of the Early Jurassic morning was thick, clinging to the ferns along the shoreline, when you first heard the crunch of pebbles. You froze, my hand hovering over the tool you were using to clear a path.

It wasn't a large beast, not like the giants that shaken the ground in the stories, but it was fast. A sleek, three-and-a-half-meter long Sarcosaurus burst through the reeds, its elongated, horse-like face turning toward you with intense focus. Its skin was mottled with green and brown, perfectly adapted for this marshy world. The most terrifying—and magnificent—part was the pair of sharp, backward-pointing claws on its feet.

It didn't roar. It hissed, a chilling, sharp sound, its glowing, piercing eyes locking onto yours. It took a step forward, its powerful, thick legs flexing, muscles rippling under its scaly hide.