Trivium’s set had just begun as the Feral Eclipse pack emerged from their backstage green room, still crackling from their own performance. They could’ve stayed behind, enjoyed the set from the comfort of the VIP platform or even the crew risers — but of course, that wasn’t what happened.
Gabriel had other ideas.
“C’mon,” he grinned, already leading the charge away from the artist compound.
Thane narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even — Gabriel, we have security access. We can just —”
But Gabriel was already gone.
Mark gave Thane a resigned grunt and followed. The rest of the crew — Cassie, Jonah, Rico, Maya, Emily — barely hesitated before tailing them like wild dogs on the scent of something delicious. By the time Thane sighed and relented, they were halfway to the front of the Pyramid Stage — cutting through artists, handlers, and increasingly confused security like a pack of caffeinated wolves in a high-speed chase.
And then they were in the crowd.
Not in the general admission crush, but right in the front of the VIP pit, just a stone’s throw from the stage. It was packed with influencers, press, label execs, and other artists — but the second the crowd saw Feral Eclipse standing among them, the atmosphere morphed from excitement to pure electricity. Cell phones lifted like a wall of digital worship. Fans screamed. Security earpieces crackled to life. The head of the festival’s crowd control team looked like he was about to pass out.
None of that mattered.
Because Gabriel was beaming like the sun.
Up on stage, Matt Heafy ripped into a chugging riff while Corey Beaulieu’s fingers blurred across the strings, and Alex Bent thundered down a polyrhythmic fury that vibrated the ground. But it was Paolo Gregoletto—Trivium’s bassist — who caught Gabriel’s eye.
Mid-song, Paolo smirked.
Gabriel blinked, tail flicking, unsure at first… until Paolo gave a slight nod.
A minute later, Paolo took three steps toward the edge of the stage during a breakdown. He glanced down directly at the sleek black-furred werewolf below him, then gave a subtle hand motion. A beckon.
Gabriel’s ears shot up. “He… he wants me up there.”
Rico laughed. “Wait, what?”
And before anyone could stop him — before Thane could issue a single growl of caution — Gabriel launched.
A full leap from the packed ground, his legs coiled and released like twin pistons. He sailed through the air with perfect werewolf grace, clearing the gap between the barrier and the stage with inches to spare, landing in a crouch just feet from Paolo. The crowd exploded — screams, cheers, dozens of phones jerking to follow him in flight. For a split second, it looked like security might intervene… until Paolo threw an arm around Gabriel’s shoulders and leaned in close.
“You deserve this,” he said. “This song’s yours.”
Paolo unstrapped his bass — Gabriel’s DarkRay, the one Paolo had received earlier — and handed it over without hesitation.
Gabriel looked down at it in his clawed hands, then back up at Paolo with wide, stunned eyes. “I — what —?”
Matt Heafy stepped to the mic.
“This last one goes out to Feral Eclipse,” he said, voice smooth, powerful. “You wolves blew the roof off this stage earlier, and it’s about time the world sees what happens when one of the best bassists in the world joins us for a song.”
The crowd detonated.
A single spotlight illuminated Gabriel.
And then the intro began.
“Pull Harder on the Strings of Your Martyr.”
Gabriel took position at Paolo’s mic — his claws moving instinctively, muscle memory and emotion crashing together as he locked into the groove. His fingers flew. He played as though his soul had finally connected to the exact frequency it was meant to hum on. The entire crowd — everyone — was locked onto him. Even the Trivium fans who didn’t know his name were screaming for the werewolf who’d leapt onto the Pyramid Stage like a living myth.
Down in the pit, Thane stood stone still — arms crossed, tail low, watching Gabriel with something between exasperation and deep, bottomless pride. Mark muttered a soft curse under his breath, but he was grinning.
Cassie was crying. Emily had climbed on Jonah’s shoulders, filming the whole thing while whisper-screaming, “THIS IS SO UNREAL.”
And Rico? Rico just shouted up at the stage, “KILL IT, WOLF!”
Gabriel did.
He didn’t just play the bassline. He devoured it. Paolo stood to the side, arms folded, nodding along with a satisfied grin. Matt roared the chorus into the heavens while Corey spun in place, shredding fire and smoke from his guitar like a demon unleashed.
When it ended — when the final crash rang out — Gabriel threw both arms into the air, bass still in hand, chest heaving. The crowd’s reaction was thunder. True thunder. It rolled across the fields and back again.
Then Trivium took their bow — all five of them now — and the pack in the pit howled loud enough to shake the lighting rigs.
Gabriel stepped off the stage the way he’d arrived: airborne and wild-eyed, landing in the midst of his pack like a legend just etched into the stone of Glastonbury forever.
Thane walked up to him and muttered, “That was reckless.”
Gabriel grinned. “But worth it?”
“…Yeah,” Thane admitted, cracking the faintest smile. “That one was worth it.”