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The sky is a bruised, heavy grey, thick with the scent of impending snow. All across the valley, a relentless river of prehistoric life flows southward—a chaotic tide of mammoths, glyptodons, and star-struck rodents, their footfalls vibrating through the permafrost. In the wake of this mass exodus, a profound, lonely silence remains, broken only by the whistling wind and the rhythmic thud-thud of massive feet. Sid the sloth stands alone on a ridge, his lanky arms dangling at his sides. He squints at the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of his family's familiar, slow-moving silhouettes. There is nothing but the dust kicked up by the thousands who didn't forget to wake up. He lets out a shaky, thin sigh that puffs into a white cloud. He is a small, brownish speck against the encroaching white of the north, clumsy and perpetually off-balance, yet he forces a crooked grin and starts a slow, shuffling trek. He’ll make it. He has to keep his toes pointed south.
Nearby, tucked into the shelter of a limestone overhang, two massive Embolotherium—ancient, rhino-like brontotheres named Carl and Frank—hover over a small patch of dirt. The ground here is hard, but a miracle has survived the early frosts. Carl lowers his massive, horn-crested head, his nostrils flared.
"I can't believe it. Fresh wild greens," he rumbles, his voice like grinding stones. He looks up at Frank, his eyes wide with a mix of reverence and hunger. "Frank, where did you ever find this?"
Frank shifts his weight, the heavy muscles in his shoulders rippling beneath a hide like scarred leather. "Go ahead. Dig in," he grunts, keeping a watchful eye on the migration path. He’d spent hours scouring the frozen scrub for this specific hollow.
Carl leans in closer, his breath hitching. "A dandelion. I thought the frost wiped 'em all out."
"All but one," Frank says, a rare, grim shadow of a smile touching his maw.
It is a tiny splash of yellow against the drab earth, a singular, delicate treasure in a world turning to ice. The moment of peace is shattered by a wet, squelching sound. Sid wanders into the clearing, his eyes fixed on a distant point, utterly oblivious to his surroundings. His right foot lands squarely in a steaming pile of Glyptodon dung with a sickening plop. He freezes, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust.
"Oh, this makes me so… I wanna… oh yuck," Sid mutters, his voice a nasal whine that cuts through the wind. He begins a frantic, uncoordinated dance, hopping on one foot while trying to scrape the filth off his long claws. "This has definitely not been my day. You know what I'm sayin', buddy? What a mess."
He stumbles blindly toward the two brontotheres, seeking something to steady himself. He reaches out, dragging his soiled foot across Frank’s pristine, slate-grey flank. The smell is instantaneous and pungent. Frank’s eyes narrow into slits, a low, vibrating growl starting in the depths of his chest.
Sid, still rambling, looks up at the two giants. He doesn't see the murderous intent; he sees an audience. "You rhinos have tiny brains. Did you know that? It's just a fact. No offence," he says, flicking a bit of dung toward Carl’s feet. "You probably didn't even know what I'm talkin' about." His gaze drops to the ground, and his eyes light up. "Yummo. A dandelion. Must be the last one of the season."
Before the behemoths can react, Sid’s long, prehensile tongue darts out, scoops up the yellow flower, and pulls it into his mouth with a loud, satisfied smack. The silence that follows is deafening.
"Frank," Carl says softly. The warning is clear.
"Easy, Frank," Carl adds, though his own hooves are beginning to knead the earth, carving deep ruts into the frost.
Frank’s head lowers, his massive horn pointing directly at the sloth’s midsection. "He ruined our salad."
Sid finally registers the atmosphere. His ears perk up, and he laughs nervously, a high-pitched, frantic sound. "My mistake. That was my mistake. Let me... No, no, seriously, let me take care of this." He looks around desperately and grabs a handful of dry, prickly pine cones from a nearby drift. "What is this? Pine cones. Oh, my goodness. They're my favourite. Delicious. That's good eating."
He shoves one into his mouth, wincing as the sharp scales poke his gums, then offers a handful to the hulking beasts. "But don't let me hog them all up. Here, you have some. Tasty, isn't it? Bon appetit-ue."
Frank looks at the pine cones, then at the green stain on his side, then back at the shaking sloth. "Now?" Frank asks, his voice a low, terrifying whisper.
"Now," Carl confirms.
The chase is a chaotic blur of thundering hooves and frantic, high-pitched shrieks. Sid scrambles over rocks and dives under frozen logs, the ground shaking behind him as two tons of prehistoric fury close the gap. He is cornered against a sheer cliff face, the brontotheres slowing down to savor the moment of impact. Suddenly, the shadow of something truly gargantuan falls over them. A wall of reddish-brown fur moves between Sid and his pursuers. Manfred, a woolly mammoth with tusks like ivory scimitars, stands like a mountain of stone. He doesn't look angry; he looks bored.
"Aren't you vegetarians?" Manny asks, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating in the air.
Carl snorts, his breath coming in hot, angry plumes. "Who says we're gonna eat him after we kill him?"
Sid gasps, shrinking back against the mammoth’s sturdy leg. The Brontotheres lower their heads once more, their eyes fixed on the sloth, waiting for the giant to step aside. They don't care about hunger; they care about the dandelion, the dung, and the insult to their intelligence, the stand-off hanging in the balance...