They saw it before they heard it.

A rolling mass of humanity sprawled across a dusty valley outside Flagstaff—miles of RVs, pop-up tents, shirtless fans waving banners, and a massive handmade archway reading WOLFSTOCK in black spray paint and red duct tape. Smoke curled from a dozen barbecue pits. Someone in the crowd lit a flare. A giant inflatable Gabriel bobbed above the treeline like some bass-wielding balloon god.

The van screeched to a halt at the crest of the hill.

“Nope,” Mark muttered. “No. I refuse. This is how horror movies start.”

Gabriel was pressed against the window, tail wagging so hard the whole van vibrated. “LOOK AT IT. LOOK AT OUR FREAKIN’ CULT.”

Thane leaned forward from the passenger seat, mouth slightly open. “This is… not sanctioned.”

Cassie scrolled on her phone. “It’s real. Fans planned it online. Coordinated on Reddit and Discord. Called it a ‘celebration of lunar fury.’”

Maya snorted. “Translation: Three straight days of screaming, questionable decisions, and mud.”

Jonah poked his head between the seats. “Y’all. Someone made a Thane piñata. It’s full of tiny black T-shirts.”

They rolled in slow.

The crowd parted like they were royalty and rockstars wrapped in one. Fans howled. People banged drums on overturned trash cans. A kid in face paint slapped the side of the van yelling, “BITE ME, GABRIEL, I’M READY!”

Gabriel leaned out the window. “WE DON’T DO UNSANITARY BITES, LITTLE DUDE.”

“MY MOM SAID THE SAME THING!”

They set up camp right in the middle of it all. No fences. No security detail. Just Feral Eclipse, their big black tour van, and a thousand rabid fans throwing an unsanctioned festival in their name.

Mark rigged string lights and a DIY power grid using portable batteries and a suspicious number of extension cords. Jonah set up a drum circle. Gabriel handed out signed guitar picks like candy.

And when someone dragged out a cheap PA system and begged them to play? They didn’t hesitate.

They climbed onto the roof of the van that night—barepaw, electric, clawed up and uncaged—and launched into a stripped-down acoustic set under the stars. No lights. No pyro. Just howling voices and raw chords echoing into the dark.

On night two, chaos hit full throttle.

Someone attempted a full moon ritual. Two fans got matching Gabriel tattoos in the mud. A food truck sold out of “Werewolf Waffles” by noon. Someone proposed to their boyfriend with a guitar pick that said Scream For Me.

And then there was the hot tub.

Built from a tarp, PVC pipe, and a fire pit. Dubbed The Wolf Bath. Its temperature? Unholy. Its legality? Questionable. Gabriel got in anyway.

Thane refused to speak to him for an hour.

By day three, even the media couldn’t ignore it. Drones buzzed overhead. Headlines flooded the net.

“UNSANCTIONED WOLFSTOCK FESTIVAL DRAWS THOUSANDS.”
“IS FERAL ECLIPSE BUILDING A CULT?”
“BASS, BARE PAWS, AND BLOOD MOONS: A WEEKEND AT WOLFSTOCK.”

The band just smiled, sipped their drinks, and leaned into the madness.

Because this wasn’t chaos.

This was home.

And the howling never stopped.