You are in the floodplains of North America, 66 million years ago.

The air in the Cretaceous floodplain was thick and humid, smelling of wet earth and ferns. You crouched behind a fallen, mossy log, your camera ready. You had been tracking the strange footprints for some time.

Then, you saw it.

It stood nearly six feet tall at the hip, a stunning blend of a cassowary and a raptor. Its body was covered in thick, dark blue feathers, but it was the head that truly defined it: a bright-blue skin patch surrounding a high, pale yellow crest that curved backward.

The Anzu moved with terrifying speed on long, slender legs, its sharp clawed feet barely making a sound on the soft, wet ground. It stopped just twenty feet from your hiding spot, turning its slender neck to scan the area with intelligent, bird-like eyes. It had no teeth, just a powerful, hooked, toothless beak that looked like it could shear through vegetation—or bone—with ease.