The last dinosaur's throat rumbled as he gathered the ancient words, syllables forged in a time when his kind ruled the earth. He lifted his snout to the sky and let out a deep, guttural cry—a sound that had once echoed across lush valleys and towering mountains. The call carried on the wind, reverberating through the empty landscape, a plea wrapped in the language of extinction.

Silence followed. His crestfallen eyes scanned the horizon once more, his heart heavy with the weight of millennia. Then, just as he was about to turn away, a distant sound—faint, but unmistakable—answered. Not a roar, not a cry, but the low, mechanical hum of something unnatural. His spines stiffened in alarm.

Crouching low, he moved toward the noise, his claws silent against the cracked earth. Over a ridge, he spotted it: a metallic structure half-buried in the dust, its surfaces gleaming under the sun. Strange symbols marked its sides, and from within, the hum pulsed like a heartbeat. This was not of his world. This was something else entirely.