You are in the plains of North America, 70 million years ago.

The air in the Alberta badlands was thick, smelling of dry earth and impending rain. You were crouching near a sandstone ridge to rest from a long trek, when the silence was broken. It wasn't a roar, but a low, vibrating hiss—like a cornered goose, but amplified ten times.

You froze. About twenty feet away, partially hidden by a cluster of dry ferns, a Dromaeosaurus was watching you.

It was only about two meters long, maybe less, but it looked incredibly dense. It was covered in dark green and charcoal-gray feathers, sleek and oily, rather than the scaly monster look you expected. It wasn't running; it was stalking. It moved with a slow, deliberate tension, its rigid tail holding it perfectly balanced.

The raptor’s eyes were the worst part—bright, intelligent, and amber-colored. They didn't look mindless; they looked hungry. You saw it shift its weight, and the three-inch, curved sickle claw on its second toe tapped the rocky ground softly.

You barely breathed. You were close enough to see the texture of the feathers around its throat. It cocked its head, mimicking a bird, testing you. When you didn't move, it made that low, rattling hiss again, showing a mouth filled with heavily worn, conical teeth.

It wasn't going to ambush you. It was evaluating you, considering if you were worth the effort or if you were too large to kill efficiently…