Brontosaurus

When Brontosaurus walked, the world announced it. Not with roars or violence,

but with the deep, rolling tremor of something so vast that the earth itself

bent beneath it. Herds of them crossed the ancient plains like migrating

mountains — necks stretched above the tallest canopy, tails sweeping behind

them in arcs that flattened undergrowth and carved new trails through forests

that had stood for centuries. When they called to one another, the sound

rolled across valleys like distant thunder, a frequency so low it was felt

in the chest before it was heard by the ear. Brontosaurus did not fight. It

did not hunt. It did not need to. Its size was its sovereignty — a quiet,

absolute authority that said: I am here, and everything around me will adjust.

The titans of Primordia had been forged by gods. Brontosaurus was forged by

time. And time, it turned out, was the more patient craftsman.