You are in the coastal lakesides of Africa, 152 million years ago.

The heat in the Tanzanian basin was oppressive, shimmering off the red dirt. You lowered your binoculars, blinking against the sweat, and froze. It wasn’t a Stegosaurus. It was smaller, leaner, and... angrier-looking.

A Kentrosaurus.

It stood only about seven feet tall, maybe fifteen or sixteen feet long—smaller than a large cow, but a lot spikier. Its head was tiny, browsing near the ground with a narrow beak. But the spikes—oh, the spikes. The small plates on its neck quickly morphed into long, deadly-looking spines that ran down its back, turning into massive lances along its tail.

It heard you. The animal didn't turn its body, but its long neck pivoted, scanning the brush. It had a pair of long, sharp spikes jutting out from its shoulders, pointing directly at you like a set of natural defenses. You decided to move back, but a stone clicked under your boot.

The creature’s posture changed instantly. The back of the animal dropped low to the ground, almost sprawling, while the long tail flicked, the spikes aiming to turn you into a shish kebab. It didn't roar like a predator; it made a low, guttural hiss.