You are in the scrublands of Mongolia, Asia, 90 million years ago.

The Gobi sun was unforgiving, baking the red sandstone until the air shimmered, but you were looking for smaller things than fossils. You were tracking a sound—a soft, frantic rustling in a thicket of ferns near the arid ridge.

Dropping to your knees, you parted the leathery leaves.

It was looking right at you. Not more than two feet long from its beak to its tail, a Microceratus was perched on its powerful, muscular hind legs. It was beautiful—yellow and blue skin patterns that blended perfectly with the arid, speckled shade. It stood perfectly still, a tiny, horned statue.

Its head was disproportionately large for its body, featuring a small, sturdy neck frill and a sharp, parrot-like beak that it quickly snapped at a nearby succulent branch. A second later, its partner—a flash of red and blue scales—popped up, mirroring the first one’s head-tilting curiosity.

You held your breath, watching the two tiny bipedal herbivores look around. They weren't frightened, just cautious, their opaque eyes analyzing the environment for danger or lunch.