You are in the forests of Antarctica, 70 million years ago.

The air is surprisingly mild, nothing like the ice-locked hell that will come millions of years later. You stand on the edge of a fern-filled clearing, the ground damp beneath your feet. Through the canopy of coniferous trees, a flash of grey catches your eye—a low-slung, stocky shape moving through the undergrowth.

It’s an Antarctopelta. It’s smaller than you expected—maybe four meters from its beak-like snout to its armored tail—but its sheer robustness is impressive. Its skin is not just flesh; it’s a mosaic of embedded bony plates (osteoderms), like a living fortress.

You freeze, watching it forage. It stops to browse on a low shrub, its leaf-shaped teeth clipping through the vegetation. It isn't alone; you hear the rustling of another one nearby, suggesting they are moving in a small group. As it moves, the heavy, fused scutes on its back make a soft scraping sound.

Suddenly, it stops chewing, raising its relatively small head to scan the tree line. It senses your presence. It doesn't charge, but it turns its armored side towards you, a quiet, effective display of defense…