You are in the coastal floodplains of Europe, 150 million years ago.

The morning mist clung to the Jurassic ferns of what would one day be Portugal, but you hardly noticed the humidity. You were tracking the movement of a herd you hadn't yet identified, something smaller than a sauropod but far more graceful than the typical stegosaur.

Then, you saw them.

A herd of about seven or eight Miragaia, browsing at a height you hadn't seen before. Their long, slender necks—resembling a giraffe more than their cousin Stegosaurus—reached effortlessly into the canopy, nibbling delicate fern fronds. They were roughly 20 feet long, with their spines arched gracefully, the small plates running down their backs shimmering faintly with a dull, earthy armor in the dappled sunlight.

You stood frozen behind a cycad tree. One of them paused its feeding, shifting its weight and bringing its incredibly long neck down to scan the clearing. For a moment, its large, intelligent eyes locked onto your position. You held your breath, watching the unique, elongated vertebrae in its neck bend effortlessly.