Author: Thane Page 28 of 40

The skyline of Boston shimmered in the windshield as the van rolled east on I-90, the buildings like jagged silhouettes against a pale orange sunset. The Atlantic wasn’t visible yet, but Gabriel could smell the salt air — feel it. Like a sixth sense calling him home.

He was practically bouncing in the front passenger seat, tail slapping the dashboard every few seconds.

“We’re almost there,” he said for the fifth time in thirty minutes.

Thane smiled faintly behind the wheel. “So I’ve heard.”

“This is it,” Gabriel murmured, staring ahead like he was watching a dream come to life. “TD Garden. I used to sit way up in the nosebleeds and swear I’d stand on that stage one day. Every show I ever saw there? I took notes.”

Cassie leaned forward from the middle row, grinning. “So you’re saying this is your revenge arc?”

“Oh, this is way beyond revenge,” Gabriel said, his voice practically glowing. “This is my victory lap.”

They passed Fenway. Then North End. Then a familiar curve on Storrow Drive made Gabriel sit bolt upright.

“Okay, okay! First detour. I’m playing tour guide. Left at the lights!”

Thane raised a brow but turned.

Over the next hour, the van hit every meaningful landmark in Gabriel’s memory:

• His high school, still covered in the same busted banners.
• The music shop where he bought his first bass.
• The park where he played acoustic sets in college just to get seen.
• And finally, the blocky brick building of his childhood home, wedged into a quiet neighborhood of white siding and overgrown sidewalks.

He grew quiet there. Just for a second.

“I used to stare out that upstairs window and imagine what it’d be like to leave this place,” he said softly. “Now I get to come back… headlining.”

Thane reached over and took his paw, gently squeezing. “You earned every bit of this.”

Gabriel looked back at him with those wild blue eyes, then grinned — full fang, full joy.

“Damn right I did.”

The show was over.

Not just done — over in the way a lightning storm ends: thunder still echoing, the crowd still stunned, and the static clinging to everything. Feral Eclipse had walked offstage thirty minutes ago to a wall of sound so thick, the house audio guy forgot to mute the board and blew a monitor.

Backstage, the band was drenched in sweat, flushed with adrenaline, and barely able to string together sentences. Jonah was lying flat on the floor, clutching a bottle of Gatorade like it owed him rent. Cassie had her boots off and her legs up on an amp case, humming under her breath. Rico and Maya were high-fiving every stagehand in sight.

Gabriel had one arm draped over Thane’s shoulder, panting, grinning, claws twitching like they weren’t done yet.

That’s when the chant started.

From out in the crowd — not fading, but rising. Louder. Unified.

“ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG!”

Thane looked at the others. “We already did three encores.”

Cassie raised a brow. “Yeah, but we’ve never done four.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh hell no,” Mark said from across the room, already sensing the chaos.

“Oh hell yes,” Gabriel answered.

---

Five minutes later, security was trying to hold back two hundred fans still gathered outside the venue in the back alley parking lot — crowding under a flickering streetlight, some standing on crates, others hanging out of car windows, still chanting.

And then…

The van door slid open.

Gabriel emerged first, bass slung low, followed by Maya with an unplugged guitar, Jonah with a single snare drum and a cracked hi-hat, Cassie with a mic taped to a battery-powered speaker, and Thane holding a tablet running a mobile mix interface.

“YOU ASKED FOR IT!” Gabriel shouted.

The crowd erupted.

No stage. No lights. No fog. Just the pavement, the moonlight, and pure werewolf-powered rock.

They launched into a stripped-down, fire-bright acoustic version of “Ashes and Iron,” the fans singing every line like their lives depended on it. One guy collapsed to his knees mid-chorus, hands over his heart. A girl near the front actually fainted and was gently caught by a stranger who screamed the rest of the song over her unconscious form.

Phones were everywhere. People were going live on every platform. Comments were flying.

“Is this really happening??”
“They’re doing a parking lot encore?!”
“NO OTHER BAND WOULD EVER.”
“I was there. I was THERE.”

As the last chorus hit, Thane triggered a soft delay effect that bounced Cassie’s voice into the night. Gabriel lifted his bass over his head like a trophy. Jonah flung a drumstick skyward that never came down (rumors later said a fan caught it with their teeth).

When it ended, the crowd howled.

The venue manager peeked out the side door, stunned, phone in hand, whispering “We’re already on TikTok’s front page…”

---

Later that night, sitting on top of the van with Gabriel, Thane scrolled through the feeds. One post had already hit half a million likes. It was a grainy photo of the band surrounded by fans, Gabriel mid-howl, the caption reading:

“This isn’t a band. This is a movement.”

Gabriel leaned over and bumped Thane’s shoulder.

“You think Vandal Saints are still here?”

Thane chuckled. “If they are, they’re definitely not outside.”

Gabriel stretched his arms to the sky and exhaled. “My wolf… we’re gonna need bigger venues.”

The venue in San Diego was legendary. Brick walls, floor-to-ceiling rigged lighting, and a crowd capacity of nearly 2,000. Sold out.

Feral Eclipse was topping the bill.

And in the opening slot?

Vandal Saints.

When the Saints arrived for load-in and soundcheck, the air in the venue shifted. They were tense. Bitter. Hungover on ego. The lead singer — the same one who had tried to heckle Gabriel at Rocklahoma — strutted in with a chip on his shoulder and a tattered flyer from Rolling Rock Magazine in his hand.

He slapped it against the green room wall.

“Wolves Eclipsed Us All, huh?” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Gabriel was lounging across a riser case with his legs kicked up. “Well, I mean… they aren’t wrong.”

Cassie cracked open a bottle of water. “You guys are still playing first, right? Just making sure we don’t run long over your bedtime.”

The Saints didn’t answer. But their glares said everything.

Thane watched it all from the corner of the room, calm, calculating. He leaned slightly toward Gabriel.

“They’re gonna be a problem tonight.”

“Nah,” Gabriel said with a grin. “They’ll be gone before our first bridge.”

---

Soundcheck was its own mess.

Vandal Saints insisted on a full-volume test, pushed the opening slot’s time limit, and tried to monopolize the monitors.

When Mark asked politely for five minutes to program a lighting cue, the Saints’ drummer scoffed, “Who the hell still uses manual lighting?”

Mark simply stared at him and said, “People who still earn their audience.”

It got quiet after that.

---

When the doors opened, the room buzzed with anticipation. The merch booth already had a line, and it wasn’t for the opening act. By the time Vandal Saints were announced onstage, the crowd inside numbered maybe… forty? Fifty at best?

They played their first song to scattered claps, empty railings, and the distant hum of fans still out in the parking lot tailgating in Feral Eclipse shirts.

By their third track, people were just starting to filter in — but only because they wanted good spots for the real show.

The Saints kept playing, bitter and stiff. You could see the fury bubbling on their faces every time someone entered mid-song, didn’t cheer, and immediately made their way toward center stage… wearing clawed makeup or wolf-themed jackets.

The final straw was near the end of their set — a fan near the front yelled “TWO SONGS TIL ECLIPSE!”

Even Gabriel, backstage and watching the monitors, nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

By the time Vandal Saints finished, the room had tripled in size — but no one clapped louder than polite.

They left the stage in silence.

---

Backstage, they stormed past the pack in the hallway — hot with sweat and shame. Their frontman growled under his breath, “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re just a trend.”

Gabriel looked him up and down and smiled like a wolf with a secret.

“Funny,” he said, “people said the same thing about fire. And we all still use that.”

The rival singer didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Just kept walking, shoulders hunched, tail tucked metaphorically between his legs.

Thane shook his head slowly. “You’d think they’d learn by now.”

Mark sipped from his soda can. “They don’t. That’s why we headline.”

The studio lights dimmed, casting deep red and blue hues across the performance stage. The air buzzed with anticipation — and not just from the studio audience. Livestream views were spiking. Hashtags were climbing. Everyone was waiting to see if the wolves could actually back up the fire they’d just spat in Grayson Thorne’s smug face.

Spoiler: they could.

Backstage, Thane double-checked the signal routing with a quick flick of his claws, nodded to Mark at the lighting board, then gave Gabriel a subtle cue. Gabriel cracked his neck, stepped forward into the spotlight, and slammed into the intro riff of No Chains Left.

The sound was thunderous.

Rico and Maya flanked him with matching guitars, Cassie stepped to the mic like a queen commanding the wind itself, and Jonah — well, Jonah made the entire stage shake. Each drum hit was a sonic warhammer. The audience erupted instantly.

The chorus hit and the fans in the audience — already standing — were singing along. Phones were raised. Chants echoed between camera swoops. Somewhere behind the set, the audio guy from the network actually fist-pumped the air and mouthed, “Holy shit.”

When the bridge dropped into that snarling half-time breakdown, Gabriel stepped forward, tail swaying, claws gripping the mic stand, and stared directly at Grayson Thorne from across the studio.

He didn’t say a word.

He just grinned as the drop hit, and the crowd lost their damn minds.

Cassie’s final scream hit like a blade across a still lake, and the lights went black. Silence. Beat. Then…

Standing ovation.

The kind that didn’t wait for permission. That didn’t follow cues. That just happened, like thunder in a storm.

Cameras kept rolling, and the host was forced — forced — to walk back onto the stage, clapping weakly like someone whose house just got demolished by a wrecking ball he ordered.

Grayson stepped up, fake smile back in place, clearly trying to salvage control of the show.

“Well, there you have it — the high-decibel, emotionally-charged Feral Eclipse. That was…” He glanced at his cue card, then tossed it. “…loud.”

Gabriel leaned into his mic one last time.

“You’re welcome.”

The audience screamed again.

Cassie added, “Don’t worry, Grayson. You’ll grow into your feelings eventually.”

Thane tilted his head slightly and said with quiet finality, “Thanks for the mic. We’ll take it from here.”

And with that, the band walked off the stage under a wave of applause, light flares, and people still cheering “No chains left!” at the top of their lungs.

Backstage, a PA chased after them breathlessly. “Do you guys want your check for this appearance?”

Mark didn’t even break stride. “Mail it to the campfire.”

The studio lights were harsh. Too clean. Too cold. Everything about The Midnight Mic with Grayson Thorne felt sanitized — from the pastel stage to the overly waxed desk, to the thin smile of the host himself.

Grayson was a known cynic. His brand was sarcasm, snark, and smug superiority, and he hated anything that disrupted his vision of “serious music culture.” Feral Eclipse? Instant bullseye.

“You’re on in two,” a PA said nervously, glancing sideways at Gabriel, who was currently spinning in a guest chair like a feral barstool tornado.

Thane sat still and composed, claws folded in his lap, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but too dignified to show it. Cassie was checking her lipstick. Rico and Maya leaned back in their chairs, swapping quiet jokes. Jonah adjusted his collar like he was about to attend a trial.

Mark sat furthest from the host’s desk, arms crossed, sunglasses on, radiating quiet nuclear potential.

“Don’t maul the host,” Thane said under his breath.

“No promises,” Gabriel grinned.

The band theme played. The crowd cheered. Lights went up.

Grayson Thorne shuffled his notecards and smirked at the camera.

“Our next guests are… let’s see…” He fake squinted. “Feral Eclipse. The werewolf-themed band from Oklahoma who recently caught fire — literally — at Rocklahoma, set the internet ablaze, and somehow convinced a chunk of the world that claws and eyeliner are music’s next great hope.”

Scattered laughs. Some boos. Mostly silence.

“They’ve sold out shows, caused property damage, and made a name for themselves by, quote, ‘howling with the fans in a fire circle.’” He looked up with the world’s smuggest expression. “How very… primal.”

The curtain lifted. The crowd erupted. Phones flashed. The pack walked onstage like they owned it.

Gabriel strutted with a wink and took the chair closest to Grayson. Cassie followed with a royal wave. Thane walked with measured calm, nodding once. Mark didn’t even remove his sunglasses.

They sat.

Grayson leaned in. “So, uh… Thane. Tell me. What’s it like getting famous for doing the same thing feral dogs do in back alleys?”

Thane raised an eyebrow. “You’ve clearly never heard a dog hit a D-sharp.”

Scattered applause. Cassie smiled.

Grayson tried again. “Gabriel, you crowd-surfed on a mattress in the campground. Do you actually consider that… artistry?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I consider it gravity. It worked. You’re just mad no one caught you.”

Laughter broke out.

Grayson’s smile thinned. “Do you worry that you’re more of a meme than a band?”

Maya leaned in. “Memes spread. That’s the point.”

Jonah added, “You’re a meme and a host. See? It can work.”

The crowd lost it.

Thorne looked to Mark, clearly fishing. “You don’t talk much. What, no comment? Growls only?”

Mark slowly turned his head, ice-cold behind his shades.

“You invited a pack of werewolves to your studio to boost your ratings. I think you know why we’re here.”

Oooooh. The audience collectively leaned back.

Grayson fumbled with his cards. “Right, well, let’s talk about your single. No Chains Left. Cute metaphor. Tell me, who’s writing your lyrics — someone who failed a poetry class in middle school?”

Cassie smirked. “No, just someone who remembers how to feel something.”

Rico added, “But hey, if you want to come to a show and get those feelings back, we’ll comp you a ticket. One with an emotional support seat cushion.”

Gabriel leaned into his mic. “He’ll need it when we start the bridge.”

Grayson finally waved a hand. “Okay! That’s enough. We’ll be right back with a… special performance by Feral Eclipse. Don’t go anywhere — or do. Whatever.”

The moment the lights dimmed for commercial, the band burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” Jonah wheezed. “We destroyed him.”

“I kept it classy,” Mark said, sipping his soda.

“You didn’t blink,” Thane said, still a little stunned.

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up. “Guys… remind me to get that segment on a T-shirt.”

By sunrise, Rocklahoma looked like a battlefield with tents instead of craters and hangovers instead of casualties. The sky was pale pink, the air thick with leftover smoke, and most of the festival-goers were either passed out in camping chairs or groggily wandering in search of coffee.

But the notifications hadn’t slept.

Phones were blowing up.

Rico was the first to say it: “Guys… we’re trending. Like, hard.”

Thane blinked, half-dressed and half-awake. “Trending what?”

Cassie turned her phone around. “Everything.”

#FeralEclipse
#AlphaMark
#ClawTheStage
#RocklahomaRoyalty

There were videos. So many videos.

• The bonfire acoustic set.
• The entire crowd howling during Howl With Me.
• Mark’s no-nonsense takedown of the Vandal Saints, now with 2.4 million views and counting.
• A slowed-down montage of Gabriel signing a shoe and dramatically handing it to a crying fan.
• A meme of Jonah with nachos photoshopped into epic battle scenes.

Then came the articles.

Rolling Rock: “Who the Hell Are Feral Eclipse — and Why Are They the Only Band That Mattered at Rocklahoma?”
AltPress: “Werewolves in the Wild: Feral Eclipse Eviscerates the Stage and Social Media.”
Billboard (yes, Billboard): “Feral Eclipse May Be the Real Future of Live Rock.”

Their inboxes exploded.

Cassie’s was filled with interview requests.
Rico’s had podcast invites.
Jonah’s had… two separate nacho sponsorship inquiries.
Gabriel got DMs from verified artists, including John Petrucci, a guitarist he’d worshiped in high school who just wrote:

“Dude. You killed. Let’s collab.”

Mark’s phone buzzed once. A text from a private number:

“Would you be open to management representation? Call me. You’ve got presence.”
Mark grunted, locked the screen, and went back to eating his oatmeal.

And Thane — Thane’s inbox had several emails flagged as “URGENT.” One from a regional tour promoter. Another from a late-night talk show. One had the subject line:

“Have you considered a West Coast headline run?”

Gabriel peeked over his shoulder. “Are we… like… famous?”

Thane closed the laptop slowly. “We’re something.”

Out near the firepit, still smoldering from the night before, fans were already gathering again. One held a sign that read “NO CHAINS LEFT = NO STAGE LEFT.”

Another had already sketched Mark in charcoal on a torn pizza box like some kind of patron saint of intimidation.

Jonah dragged a folding chair into the center of the group and flopped down dramatically. “Sooo… we should probably figure out how to survive this.”

Cassie leaned against the van, sipping coffee with a slow, satisfied smile. “We don’t survive it. We ride it.”

Gabriel looked at Thane. “What now, my wolf?”

Thane looked toward the rising sun, already seeing the next storm building beyond the horizon.

“…We howl louder.”

Night had fallen hard over Rocklahoma, but the Feral Eclipse campsite was lit up like a small village. Canopies strung with battery-powered lights cast warm glows across folding chairs, beer coolers, and laughing fans sprawled in half-broken hammocks. Music played from someone’s speaker — mostly Feral Eclipse tracks, though someone had snuck in a Dio song that Jonah kept dramatically singing over.

Thane was reclined in a camp chair, one arm slung lazily over Gabriel’s shoulders, both of them nursing drinks and watching as Cassie got talked into a chaotic game of beanbag limbo. Jonah and Rico were mid-debate over whether nachos were a food group. Maya was halfway through her second flask and showing fans how to do claw-hand poses correctly for selfies.

It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like warmth from the inside out. Loud. Joyful. Absolutely unhinged.

Until the energy shifted.

Two guys staggered out of the dark, clearly drunk, with that wobbly confidence that only comes from ego and just enough alcohol to ruin your judgment. They wore sleek black outfits, shiny leather boots, and just enough eyeliner to confirm the suspicion.

Vandal Saints.

Gasps rippled through the fans closest to the perimeter. Phones immediately came out. The taller of the two was already sneering.

“Ohhh wow,” he slurred, looking around at the fans like he’d stepped in something sticky. “Look at this. The flea circus has merch.”

The other one jabbed a finger at Gabriel. “Didn’t know you could ride a wave of hype off one acoustic bonfire and a fire hazard.”

The pack tensed instantly. Thane sat up. Gabriel leaned forward slightly, ears flicked back but calm. Maya was already halfway to a bottle she could throw. Rico looked like he might pounce.

But before anyone could speak, Mark stood up.

The old gray werewolf had been quiet all night, perched on a cooler with his soda and his thoughts. But now he rose slowly — all calm weight, shoulders broad, fur catching the firelight in a dull silver shimmer.

He stepped between the fans and the Vandal Saints boys like a wall moving on its own. Not a growl. Not a threat. Just presence.

“You’ve had your set,” Mark said flatly. “Now you’ve had your say. It’s time to walk away.”

The taller one scoffed. “Yeah? Or what, grandpa? You gonna sniff us to death?”

Mark didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just held the guy’s gaze like gravity itself.

“You don’t belong here tonight. You know it. They know it.” He gave a nod to the crowd — every one of them locked in, silent, recording. “Turn around. Walk out with what little grace you’ve got left.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, one of the Vandal Saints took a step back. The other followed, still glaring, but faltering. They turned — not running, but not proud — and vanished into the dark.

Only once they were gone did the spell break.

The campsite erupted.

“OH MY GOD MARK!”
“DID YOU SEE THAT??”
“HE DIDN’T EVEN RAISE HIS VOICE!!”
“Bro, he alpha’d them with a sentence!”
“Holy crap I’m putting that on TikTok right now.”

Gabriel turned to Thane, wide-eyed and blinking. “What… just happened?”

Thane shook his head slowly. “I think we just saw prime Mark.”

Cassie was already doubling over laughing. Jonah shouted something about adding “Mark Intimidation” as an official stage effect. Maya passed Mark her untouched drink in a show of pure respect.

Mark just sat back down, cracked open another soda, and muttered, “Idiots.”

By midnight, the clip had gone viral. Multiple angles, perfect audio, a couple fan-edited versions with dramatic music behind Mark’s speech. The top comment everywhere?

“This is the guy the rest of the pack listens to. Don’t mess with Uncle Mark.”

The sun was just starting to dip behind the Oklahoma tree line as Feral Eclipse stood behind the curtain at Rocklahoma’s main stage. A dry breeze rustled the tarp walls. From beyond the lights, they could already hear it — the crowd, impossibly loud, roaring in waves that seemed to grow every time someone spotted the silhouettes of the band waiting in the wings.

Cassie stood quietly near the edge, one hand on her mic, her head tilted up as she hummed softly through her warmups. Rico and Maya were tuning up with steady, focused hands, checking fretboards and giving each other silent nods. Jonah was pacing like a caged animal, sticks flipping in one hand, adrenaline already pouring out of him.

Gabriel sat cross-legged on a road case, headphones on, tail slowly thumping behind him like a metronome. He had his eyes closed, breathing in time with the bassline already mapped in his head. When Thane stepped up beside him and touched his shoulder, Gabriel cracked one eye open and smirked.

“Ready?”

“Born ready, my wolf,” Gabriel said, flicking off the headphones.

The house lights dropped. The intro track rumbled to life. Fog hissed across the stage in swirling waves. Then the banner dropped, and the stage exploded into deep blue and pulsing red lights.

The crowd’s reaction was instant—a sonic tidal wave of screams and howls as the first thunderous notes of No Chains Left ripped through the night. Feral Eclipse didn’t just walk onstage — they took it. Gabriel was already throwing his whole body into the first riff, fur flashing in the strobe, his bass snarling like a wild animal. Rico and Maya hit opposite corners of the stage, flanking the front row as if daring them to keep up. Jonah looked like he was waging a war on his kit. And Cassie — she didn’t just sing, she unleashed.

Thane watched it all from his spot by the stage rig, hands deftly working the FOH mix rig, headset on, directing cues with clipped barks into his mic. Mark had synced the entire lighting rig by hand earlier that day, and it showed — every downbeat was punctuated with strobes, red blasts, and a rising crescendo of white beams that sliced through the Oklahoma dusk like claws.

The setlist ran like wildfire. Wolves Run Cold, Chainbreaker, Ashes and Iron — each one louder, tighter, more explosive than the last. When they launched into Howl With Me, the crowd didn’t just sing. They howled. Thousands of voices lifted into the sky in a perfect, spine-tingling roar.

Even the band looked stunned for a split second.

By the time they closed with Down the Line, the crowd had become a living, breathing organism — arms raised, bodies pressed together, chanting the final lyrics with tears in their eyes and dust in their teeth. Cassie dropped to one knee on the final chorus, gripping the mic like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

And then… silence. The final chord rang out.

No one moved. Not a breath.

Then came the thunder. Screams. Cheers. Chanting. A wave of sound so loud it cracked off the stage trusses and shook the trees. Gabriel grinned and left the stage without a word. The rest of the band followed him as the roar continued behind them, like the aftermath of a sonic bomb.

Fifteen minutes later, the next band — a polished, big-label act called Vandal Saints — stepped onto the stage. They strutted, confident, prepped, postured. But as they began their set, something became uncomfortably obvious.

The crowd had… shifted.

More than half had filtered away, some drifting back toward the camps, others still in packs around the field with Feral Eclipse shirts on, playing clips from the show, replaying the firelight from the night before. People still cheered — politely. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t feral.

Backstage, the band was sprawled across a few empty cases, cooling off under a portable fan and laughing through their exhaustion. Jonah was eating nachos off a cymbal. Maya had kicked off her boots and was holding an ice pack to her ankle. Rico was scrolling through tagged posts on his phone and just kept muttering, “Holy crap.”

Gabriel flopped down beside Thane, nuzzled his shoulder, and looked out over the crowd that was still half-lit by the glow of the main stage.

“Think they’ll recover?” he asked.

Thane gave a slow, exhausted grin. “They’ll survive.”

Mark wandered over with a new soda and sat down without a word. After a moment, he looked toward the stage.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“What?”

“That pause between songs,” Mark said. “That awkward silence.”

Gabriel cackled. “Guess they should’ve camped with the fans.”

The sun was already brutal when Feral Eclipse rolled into Pryor, Oklahoma, the van crawling through the dense maze of dusty fields, flags, tents, RVs, and shirtless chaos that was Rocklahoma. The gates were open, the music was loud, and the whole weekend screamed feral freedom.

“Holy crap,” Jonah whispered, peeking out the window. “Is that guy crowd-surfing in a baby pool?”

“Two of them,” Mark confirmed, sipping soda without a hint of judgment.

Gabriel’s grin practically broke his muzzle. “Oh we are home.”

---

🏕️ No VIP. No Backstage. Right in the Fray.

Thane parked the van not in the designated artist section, but dead-center in the fan campground. He’d made the call on the drive in.

“If we’re playing for the people,” he said, “we camp with the people.”

They pulled out folding chairs, canopies, and crates of merch like seasoned road warriors. Within minutes, their little corner of the festival turned into ground zero for chaos:

• Rico and Maya were jamming with random fans on battered acoustics and beer cans.
• Jonah started a drum-off on plastic tubs with a group of shirtless dudes in war paint.
• Gabriel signed a shirtless guy’s back and got lifted onto a cooler like some kind of wolf god.

A massive, duct-taped hand-painted banner reading “FERAL ECLIPSE CAMPS HERE” was hoisted by a fan over the site. Someone grilled hot dogs. Someone else tried to name their tent The Howlden.

---

📻 The Surprise Interview

Late in the afternoon, a station crew from 97.5 KZLF — The Rig came by, clearly following the noise.

Their DJ, Carla Vega, held out a mic and said, “We were gonna track down your tour manager. Then we saw your bassist crowd-surfing on a camp mattress.”

Gabriel threw a peace sign behind her.

So they pulled up camp chairs, gathered around a beat-up fold-out table, and went live on the air right there in the dirt.

“You’re not hiding in green rooms,” Carla said into the mic. “You’re right here in the madness.”

Cassie smirked. “That’s where the wolves run.”

“Tell me about the album,” Carla pressed.

Thane leaned in. “Twelve tracks, one message: no chains. No rules. Just the raw truth.”

Gabriel added, “Also? Fire. There might be fire.”

---

🔥 Speaking of Fire…

That night, the band lit a massive campfire and kicked off an impromptu acoustic set with half the campground packed around them. Guitars out, stripped-down harmonies, and a hell of a lot of off-key backup vocals from the crowd.

• Gabriel howled the bridge of “Ashes and Iron” into the stars.
• Cassie sang “Down the Line” so hard people were crying.
• Jonah led a clap-along using nothing but tent stakes and a pot lid.

Then someone knocked over a torch. Sparks hit a cooler. A roll of paper towels lit up like a beacon.

“FIRE!” someone shouted.

Mark and Thane leapt into action — dumping soda, smothering flames, grabbing the fire extinguisher from the van.

Smoke billowed. People cheered. Gabriel raised his arms like he planned the whole thing.

“ROCKLAHOMA!” he bellowed into the smoke. “THE WOLVES HAVE LANDED!”

---

🌄 Morning Headlines

The next day, Feral Eclipse made the front page of the local news app.

“Newcomer Band Ignites Rocklahoma — Literally and Figuratively”
Campfire concert, surprise interview, crowd-surfing mayhem, and a minor fire drama make Feral Eclipse the name on everyone’s lips.

Another band—Vandal Saints—rolled into the area mid-morning, clearly annoyed. Their frontman looked at the banner, the crowd still hanging around the Eclipse camp, and muttered, “They better not play after us.”

It started innocently enough.

After the show at The Emberline, Thane had insisted on booking one night in a proper hotel. Not a roadside dive, not a van nap, not a shared room with questionable stains — but a real hotel. Five stars. Marble floors. A chandelier in the lobby. Bellhops that looked like they’d rather be at Harvard.

The front desk staff visibly hesitated when they saw the pack strut in, still in ripped jeans, fur tousled, claws visible, and gear bags slung over their shoulders like chaos grenades.

“Do you… have a reservation?” the concierge asked slowly.

“Feral Eclipse,” Thane said, handing over the card. “Three rooms. One night.”

There was a pause. The woman at the desk blinked. Then gasped.

“Oh my god. You’re the band my niece won’t shut up about. You’re the wolves from WXRF last night!”

Gabriel winked. “Guilty.”

---

🛏️ Midnight – The Presidential Suite (why not?)

Rico was lounging on a leather couch like a king, sipping complimentary champagne from the bottle.

Maya was jumping on the bed while blasting their demo tracks from a Bluetooth speaker.

Cassie had found the minibar and was aggressively reorganizing it by ABV.

Jonah was doing something involving a hairdryer, a banana, and the fire alarm.

Gabriel was shirtless and trying to convince a pair of bathroom mirrors to reflect him “like a cool album cover.”

Mark had locked himself in the other bathroom muttering, “I’m too old for this,” while Thane was half buried under a pile of scattered cables, trying to fix the in-suite TV sound system to run a mix playback.

Then came the knock.

A mob of fans — mostly teens and twenty-somethings — had figured out where they were. The door cracked open and a flood of people immediately burst in like wolves in heat.

“OH MY GOD IT’S GABRIEL!”
“CASSIE, I LOVE YOU!”
“JONAH SIGN MY ARM!”
“IS THAT THE ALBUM MIX?!”
“WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BANANAS?!”

Security tried to intervene. Tried. But by the time the staff showed up, Gabriel was giving a selfie tour of the suite, two girls were braiding Maya’s hair, and someone had accidentally set a small fire in a trash can trying to light a candle with a stage lighter.

---

☕ Hotel Breakfast Buffet, 8:37 AM

Somehow, miraculously, the band made it to breakfast.

Thane looked like he’d slept for five minutes on a broken guitar case.

Mark was drinking black coffee with the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen things.

Gabriel? Bright-eyed and shirtless under his jacket, still wearing the room service towel around his waist like a royal sash.

Fans were already there. Word had spread. A group of sleep-deprived superfans had infiltrated the buffet line, carrying Sharpies, posters, and the occasional hotel napkin.

“Oh my god, Gabriel, please sign my toast —”

Someone had taken a bite out of it. He signed it anyway.

“Excuse me,” a frazzled hotel manager said to Thane, “we do not normally allow public meet-and-greets at the waffle station.”

“We’re not normally awake at breakfast,” Thane replied, deadpan.

As if on cue, the pancake machine exploded.

Everyone turned.

Jonah stood frozen, syrup bottle in hand. “…It told me to press both buttons.”

---

🧳 Check-out – Later That Morning

“We’re banned, aren’t we?” Maya asked, dragging her suitcase out through the shattered revolving door.

“Indefinitely,” Thane confirmed, walking beside her with one hand over his eyes.

Mark sipped the last of his hotel coffee. “They gave us a three-star Yelp review as guests. That’s impressive.”

“Still worth it,” Gabriel said, pulling on his shades with a grin. “One more show like that and we’re not just Feral Eclipse. We’re legend.”

Cassie looked around at the crowd still camped on the sidewalk, waving signs and wearing merch.

“You know what?” she said. “I think we already are.”

The tour van pulled away from the curb, wrapped in midnight black and clawed decals, leaving behind a swirl of glitter, fire damage, and the faint scent of burnt waffles.