The sun blazed like a vengeful god over the dusty grounds of the Desert Howl Festival — an outdoor rock-and-metal bacchanal held in a sprawling patch of scrubland east of Palm Springs. Massive scaffolds towered over the dunes, strung with LED panels and flame cannons. Tents stretched for miles. Fans wore everything from band merch to full-body wolf fursuits, already dancing, moshing, and shouting as the first afternoon acts wrapped up.

Backstage, chaos brewed.

The Saints had arrived.

Vandal Saints’ tour van rolled into the staff lot three hours late, sun-bleached, dusty, and aggressively idling with a crooked bumper and two different wheels on the driver’s side. The bass player was passed out with a Slurpee stuck to his forehead. Their lead singer, Bret, stomped out first — already shirtless, already scowling.

He looked around at the flurry of crew members setting up the headlining act’s rig.

Feral Eclipse.

And there it was — their name in ten-foot letters across the top of the main stage’s lighting truss. Below it, an enormous LED wall played looping highlights of previous shows: fire, fans, rooftop tributes, and Gabriel mid-air, bass slung low, howling into a sea of screaming people.

Bret’s jaw locked.

“They’ve got pyro?” he snapped.

“They’ve got drone coverage,” their manager replied grimly.

“And a damn howl pit cam!” added their drummer, pointing to a rigged GoPro being lowered over the crowd zone like it was setting up for a championship match.

Bret turned and spat on the dirt. “Unbelievable. We should’ve never agreed to open for a bunch of furry freaks.”

The crew tech nearby — wearing a “Team Thane” T-shirt — didn’t even blink. “You guys are on the side stage. First slot.”

Bret spun. “WHAT?!”

“Yeah,” the guy said flatly. “Feral Eclipse requested extra rig time and crowd flow control, so your set got moved. It’s, like… a 3 p.m. slot now.”

“In the sun?” Bret shrieked. “No lighting?! No visuals?!”

“No crowd,” the tech muttered under his breath.

And he was right.

By the time the Saints hit their first note, they were playing to a sunburned row of lawn chairs and three fans — two of whom were clearly just using the shade behind the speaker stacks to nap. Every scream from the far-off main stage only made their own vocals sound flatter.

Meanwhile, Feral Eclipse was just arriving — greeted like rock royalty by a sea of fans at the security barricade, phones raised, chants echoing:
“FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!”

Backstage, Thane stood under the tailgate of the tour van, arms crossed, watching the dust swirl behind the Saints’ side stage. He heard the mic feedback from across the grounds — a painful screech followed by someone yelling “Aw, come on!” into a dead channel.

Gabriel wandered over, sipping an iced coffee and smirking. “Think they’ll make it to the end of their set?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thane said. “Nobody’s watching.”

Mark wandered up holding his tablet and snorted. “Correction. Two thousand people are watching… through the livestream titled ‘Vandal Saints Get Cooked Alive in the Desert.’”

Gabriel cackled. “Damn. That sun’s not the only thing scorching them today.”

Thane just chuckled. “Play stupid games…”

Gabriel grinned back. “Win Feral Eclipse.”