The next morning broke warm and golden. Dew sparkled across the field, the stage crew long gone, the lot mostly cleared of food trucks and vendor tents. Birds chirped, gear cases clicked shut, and the crew packed the van at a leisurely pace while sipping strong coffee.

Gabriel was the first to smell it—a sharp, acrid scent that didn’t belong.

He froze, sniffed the air again, then bolted.

“Thane. Smoke. Not wood. Come on!”

They rounded the back hill just as a plume of gray lifted from a cluster of trees. The unmistakable orange flicker of flames was climbing fast.

“Wildfire,” Mark muttered, appearing beside them, already scrolling his tablet for a signal. “It wasn’t on the forecast.”

“Did someone leave a grill burning overnight?” Cassie asked as the others ran over.

Jonah pointed to the source—a smoldering pile of what looked like one of the Saints’ trashed props. “Looks like Bret left us a gift.”

“That son of a—” Maya started, but Mark raised a hand.

“No time. Wind’s shifting. We need to get everyone out.”

Within minutes, Thane had activated emergency channels on the van’s PA. Gabriel and Jonah sprinted through the far field to wake up the last group of camping fans, while Maya grabbed a bullhorn and started barking in both English and Spanish.

The fire wasn’t massive—yet. But the terrain was dry, and the wind was picking up.

As the last of the fans were herded toward the road, Thane turned back toward the rising smoke, eyes narrowed.

Mark joined him. “That wasn’t an accident.”

Thane didn’t answer. But the growl low in his throat said everything.

This wasn’t just a twist of fate. Someone wanted to mess with Feral Eclipse.

And they were about to find out that was a big mistake.