Two days after the EchoRidge miracle show, the bus rolled into Des Moines with something a little different on the itinerary.

No sold-out venue. No press junkets. No surprise concert chaos.

Just a quiet, unannounced afternoon at the Midtown Community Arts Center, a small space tucked behind a strip mall that smelled like paint, old folding chairs, and possibility.

The idea had come from Gabriel, unsurprisingly. He’d been scrolling through the avalanche of fan messages after the surprise festival gig when one caught his eye: a high school drumline kid from the south side who said, “I wish I could see you guys live, but I can’t afford tickets. Just watching your videos keeps me playing.”

It hit him like a thunderclap.

That same night, Thane and Gabriel made a few calls. Thane handled the logistics. Cassie pinged a nonprofit music ed group in Iowa. Jonah sent a message to a local school’s band teacher. And within 24 hours, it was on.

Feral Eclipse wasn’t just passing through Des Moines.

They were showing up.

That afternoon, fifty kids—ranging from shy middle schoolers to cocky high school seniors—stood nervously in the front lobby of the arts center, not quite sure what to expect.

Then the doors opened.

And Gabriel bounded in like a caffeinated freight train. “ALRIGHT, YOU LITTLE ROCKSTARS! WHO’S READY TO BLOW OUT SOME EARDRUMS?!”

The place exploded.

The rest of the band filtered in behind him, all dressed casually, no stagewear, no spotlights—just the crew, sleeves rolled up and ready to hang. Jonah was instantly mobbed by five kids with makeshift drumsticks who wanted to know if he really learned on trash cans. (“Yes, and yes, they make awesome snares if you tape ’em right.”)

Mark drifted to the back row of the group and knelt beside a quiet kid eyeing the lighting truss. “You ever run a board before?”

The boy shook his head.

“You’re about to.”

Cassie hosted a Q&A, fielding questions like, “Do you get nervous?” and “What if my parents don’t think music’s a real career?” Her answers were honest, fierce, and comforting all at once. (“You show them it is. Or do it anyway. Sometimes it’s both.”)

Thane ran a mini masterclass in sound tech basics, letting a few eager teens try adjusting the monitor mix as Gabriel and Rico jammed a stripped-down version of Into the Fire. He even printed out copies of a stage patch layout and let them rearrange it “as if they were running the show.”

One girl—barely twelve—asked Gabriel if she could touch his bass. He knelt down, handed it to her, and said, “Only if you promise to show me up someday.”

She held it like a holy relic.

By the end of the afternoon, everyone had autographs, selfies, and that wide-eyed buzz that only happens when dreams seem suddenly real.

As the band posed for a giant group photo in front of a paper banner that read “Feral Eclipse Welcome to Des Moines!”, one of the kids looked up at Jonah and whispered, “I didn’t think people like you came back for people like us.”

Jonah smiled, that same soft, proud look he’d worn in Columbus.

“Always,” he said. “We never forget where we came from.”