Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Thane’s ears as the pack filed offstage, high on adrenaline and the smell of sweat and electricity. Gabriel bumped shoulders with Jonah, who was practically glowing. Maya and Rico fist-bumped mid-jump. Even Cassie, usually cool after a show, let out a breathless, giddy laugh.

Then the hallway got quiet.

Too quiet.

At the corner where the backstage corridor bent toward the dressing rooms, the headliner’s lead singer stood leaning against the wall, arms folded over a vintage leather jacket. His face was carved granite—expressionless, but his narrowed eyes spoke volumes. Beside him, their bassist clutched a bottled water like it was a weapon. Their crew flanked them like palace guards, every one of them giving the pack that same bitter, territorial glare.

Gabriel saw it first and grinned, because of course he did. “Hey, old dogs. Fun show, huh?”

No answer. Just a cold, controlled silence.

Thane stepped forward, calm but deliberate, with his massive clawed hand still gripping a coiled XLR like a leash. “Something you want to say?”

The lead singer pushed off the wall and stepped forward just enough to crowd the hallway.

“You think because you got the crowd hot for five songs, you’re gods now?” he said, voice like gravel in a blender. “This is our show. Our name on the tickets. You’re lucky you even got a slot.”

Gabriel’s tail flicked once.

“We didn’t ask for a slot,” he replied coolly. “We earned it.”

“You earned an ego,” the bassist muttered.

Maya stepped in now, fire behind her eyes. “You mad the fans liked us better, or that you finally realized they’ve moved on?”

One of their guitarists scoffed. “You’re a gimmick. A circus act. A band with dog costumes and social media clout.”

Thane didn’t flinch, but the hallway seemed to constrict around him as he took a slow, measured step forward. His claws clicked once on the concrete.

“We’re wolves,” he said simply. “Not mascots. And I suggest you learn the difference before one bites.”

It was not a threat.

It was a fact.

The tension spiked like a feedback squeal, crackling in the air. The headliner’s crew bristled, but nobody moved. Nobody dared. Even the stage manager, who’d come barreling in to break things up, suddenly found something fascinating on the floor instead.

Then, of all people, Mark strolled out from the dressing room, a protein bar in one hand and his tablet in the other, oblivious to the blood pressure in the room.

He looked up.

Paused.

Glanced around at the tension.

Then took a loud, slow bite of his protein bar and said casually, “Well… this is awkward.”

The moment cracked. Cassie snorted. Jonah outright laughed.

The headliner’s lead singer scowled and turned away, brushing shoulders with Thane as he passed. “You’ll burn out,” he muttered. “All of you.”

Gabriel watched him go, then leaned toward Thane. “Should I have told him that our merch sales tonight beat their last three cities combined?”

Thane smirked. “Let him find out when he checks the numbers.”

Later that night, as the van pulled away from the stadium with the full moon rising overhead, the pack was still buzzing.

They hadn’t just stolen the show.

They’d claimed their territory.

And no aging rock god was gonna take it back without a fight.

The stadium loomed ahead like a colossus — all concrete, steel, and attitude. One of those massive old-world venues, known more for classic rock anthems and beer-drenched nostalgia than anything remotely modern. It seated over 60,000, and tonight, every single one of them was sold out for a double bill: a legacy rock titan… and the upstart pack nipping at their heels.

Feral Eclipse.

The van rolled into the loading zone under gray skies. Thane stepped out first, eyes scanning the bustle of crew members, semis, and grizzled old roadies. This wasn’t their usual scene. This was big-league, high-budget, and deeply territorial.

“Here we go,” Gabriel muttered, sliding out behind him. He adjusted the strap of his Ernie Ball DarkRay 5 and gave a little smirk. “Smells like ego and old amps.”

They were directed toward the side stage entrance—not the main one. Subtle, but intentional. The message was clear: the headliners didn’t want to share space.

Mark took it in without a word, only raising one brow and muttering to himself, “Classic insecure sysadmin energy.”

Inside, the headliner’s crew barely acknowledged them. One guy actually scoffed. Another rolled his eyes at Gabriel’s claws as he carried his own gear instead of waiting for a tech. Thane growled low in his throat. Gabriel just grinned wider.

“Bet they think we’re cute,” he whispered.

Cassie met them near the dressing rooms, arms crossed. “They gave us a broom closet to warm up in.”

Rico laughed. “Perfect. Brooms are where we sweep the floor with ‘em.”

Maya cracked her knuckles. “Let’s show them what chaos sounds like.”

By the time Feral Eclipse stepped out into the wings, the stadium was buzzing. Most of the crowd hadn’t even sat down yet — they were still getting drinks, finding their seats, milling around like it didn’t matter what happened during the opener.

Until it did.

---

The first power chord ripped through the PA like lightning. Mark’s lighting rig, scaled down but deadly precise, burst into motion with synchronized LEDs dancing through the mist. Jonah hit a beat that shook the bleachers. Rico and Maya dove into a harmonic duel that turned heads. And then Gabriel stepped into the spotlight — black-furred, bass slung low, icy blue eyes locking with the front row.

“We are Feral Eclipse,” he growled into the mic. “Let’s make ‘em hear you in the nosebleeds.”

And oh, they heard.

The crowd, caught mid-concession, froze. Fans sprinted back to their seats. Phones flew up. Within minutes, what had been an indifferent audience turned into a roaring sea of fists and claws.

Cassie’s voice soared. “Midnight Collapse” hit with earthquake force. “Run With Me” brought the whole front section to tears. And when they closed with “Howlcore,” the entire stadium joined in the final howl — a guttural, primal scream that echoed into the rafters and made the headliner’s crew stare open-mouthed from the sidelines.

Backstage, the legacy band stood silently near the wings, watching with stunned expressions. Their lead singer whispered something to his tour manager, who only nodded grimly.

The moment Feral Eclipse walked offstage, the crew erupted in adrenaline-charged celebration. Gabriel high-fived fans still reaching through the barricade. Mark pulled his tablet off the rack, checked the metrics, and just said, “That’s gonna be trending.”

Thane, ever composed, glanced back over his shoulder toward the darkened hallway where the headliners stood. He locked eyes with their guitarist for half a second. No words. Just a nod.

A quiet, territorial warning.

This wasn’t just an opener.

This was a declaration.

The pack had arrived. And the old guard had just been eclipsed.

The sun had barely crested the skyline when the van rolled into Sacramento, golden light stretching across the R Street Corridor like a warm hand pulling them in. The buildings around Ace of Spades stood aged but proud—industrial bones turned holy ground for music. It wasn’t massive like the stadiums they’d hit, but that was the charm. This place was raw. Tight. Intimate. The kind of venue where every drop of sweat felt earned and the roar of the crowd didn’t just echo—it pressed into your skin.

The crew moved like clockwork. Gabriel backed the van into the tight alley behind the club, cutting the engine with a satisfied thrum. Inside, the venue was already humming with energy—sound techs double-checking cable runs, bartenders prepping the taps, and a quiet rumble of diehard fans starting to line the block outside.

Mark stepped in first, surveying the place like a conductor walking into a symphony hall. “Oh yeah,” he murmured. “This’ll do nicely.” He was grinning before he even powered up the rig, already mentally syncing the LED bars to pulse with every beat, every guitar squeal, every drop of Cassie’s voice.

Gabriel stood near the back of the stage, bass cradled lovingly against his chest, his tail flicking with nervous energy. “Feels electric,” he said to Thane, who was tightening the last truss clamp on a fog machine.

Thane gave a small nod, eyes scanning the empty floor that would soon be full of sweat, screams, and sheer love for the music. “They’re gonna eat us alive. In the best way.”

Backstage, Maya was already pacing like a wolf in a cage while Rico leaned casually against a wall, fine-tuning his guitar’s intonation. Jonah beat out a warm-up rhythm on his knees, and Cassie stood by the door, eyes closed, humming a final vocal scale. The pack didn’t need hype. They were the hype. All of it bristling just beneath the surface, ready to detonate the moment the lights dropped.

When the house finally went dark and the low rumble of the crowd hit a crescendo, a hush washed through the venue. Then—pop. Pyro flared from the stage wings. Mark’s LEDs flared blood red, then dropped to blue in time with the drum roll. And then Gabriel stepped forward, voice like thunder crashing through velvet.

“Sacramento,” he roared, “are you awake tonight?!”

The crowd didn’t answer—they howled.

What followed was an hour and a half of pure feral fire. The band tore through every song with the confidence of seasoned warriors, tight as ever, moving in sync like a single beast. “Wolves Awake.” “Deadlight Serenade.” “Echo Burn.” Maya and Rico played off each other like fire and gasoline, while Jonah’s kit became a war drum guiding the storm. Cassie’s vocals pierced everything—sometimes gentle, sometimes savage, but always commanding.

Somewhere mid-set, Gabriel slowed the energy, easing the crowd into a hush. Alone with his bass and a single spotlight, he plucked the opening to “Run With Me,” looking out over the sea of faces. A hand-painted sign near the front caught his eye: “Rowan, we miss you.”

He smiled, voice soft but steady. “This one’s for a young wolf who helped us get here.”

Thane glanced sideways but didn’t say a word. Everyone in the band knew what that moment meant. And as the chorus rolled in, the fans sang louder than the amps. It wasn’t just a performance. It was pack.

By the end, they had nothing left in the tank. Gabriel tore into the closing notes of “Howlcore” like his strings were made of fire, while Cassie and Jonah led the final drop. Pyro flared again, smoke filling the rafters. The howl that ended the song echoed for what felt like minutes after they took their bows.

Back in the alley, slumped against the tour van, the band sat in silence for a moment—steam still rising from their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Small room,” Thane said finally, pulling off his headset and shaking out his fur. “Huge energy.”

Gabriel leaned back and let out a breathless laugh. “Just the way I like it.”

Mark stood nearby, tapping a few final commands into his tablet before slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “This code rocks. Literally.”

Cassie stretched, bones popping. “This town… damn.”

And from behind the wheel, Maya just revved the engine once and said, “Where to next?”

The pack didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. The music would lead. The pack would follow. And the world wasn’t ready for what came next.

They were holed up in a budget hotel just off the freeway — rumored to have checked in drunk, loud, and nursing a bruised ego the night before. When the Feral Eclipse van rolled into the lot, it wasn’t with fanfare. It was with fury.

Thane and Gabriel stepped out first. Silent. Focused. Behind them, Maya and Mark flanked the doors while Jonah and Rico hung back with Cassie by the van, all of them watching with tense anticipation.

Thane banged on the room door with one clawed fist.

It swung open after a pause. Bret stood there, shirtless, bleary-eyed, a hangover practically steaming off his skin. “What the hell do you —”

Gabriel grabbed his shirt collar, shoved him back against the wall with a low snarl. “You could have killed people.”

Bret sputtered. “What are you talking about?!”

Thane loomed beside him, the calm gone from his voice. “The prop. The fire. You left it smoldering. That field had over three hundred people in tents.”

Bret shoved Gabriel off weakly, stumbling. “We didn’t light anything — probably some fan —”

Maya stormed in. “You trashed that stage in a tantrum and left broken gear piled on dry brush. That’s arson whether you struck a match or not.”

Mark folded his arms. “Not to mention the part where we have it on drone footage.“

Bret paled.

“We’re not pressing charges,” Thane said darkly. “Yet.”

Gabriel stepped in close. “But if you ever endanger our fans, our crew, or our family again — there won’t be a warning next time.”

Bret said nothing. Just nodded, eyes downcast.

As the pack turned to go, Maya glanced over her shoulder and added, “Mama Feroz is gonna love hearing about this.”

The door slammed shut before she could finish the grin.

The next morning broke warm and golden. Dew sparkled across the field, the stage crew long gone, the lot mostly cleared of food trucks and vendor tents. Birds chirped, gear cases clicked shut, and the crew packed the van at a leisurely pace while sipping strong coffee.

Gabriel was the first to smell it—a sharp, acrid scent that didn’t belong.

He froze, sniffed the air again, then bolted.

“Thane. Smoke. Not wood. Come on!”

They rounded the back hill just as a plume of gray lifted from a cluster of trees. The unmistakable orange flicker of flames was climbing fast.

“Wildfire,” Mark muttered, appearing beside them, already scrolling his tablet for a signal. “It wasn’t on the forecast.”

“Did someone leave a grill burning overnight?” Cassie asked as the others ran over.

Jonah pointed to the source—a smoldering pile of what looked like one of the Saints’ trashed props. “Looks like Bret left us a gift.”

“That son of a—” Maya started, but Mark raised a hand.

“No time. Wind’s shifting. We need to get everyone out.”

Within minutes, Thane had activated emergency channels on the van’s PA. Gabriel and Jonah sprinted through the far field to wake up the last group of camping fans, while Maya grabbed a bullhorn and started barking in both English and Spanish.

The fire wasn’t massive—yet. But the terrain was dry, and the wind was picking up.

As the last of the fans were herded toward the road, Thane turned back toward the rising smoke, eyes narrowed.

Mark joined him. “That wasn’t an accident.”

Thane didn’t answer. But the growl low in his throat said everything.

This wasn’t just a twist of fate. Someone wanted to mess with Feral Eclipse.

And they were about to find out that was a big mistake.

The festival grounds were quiet now.

Long after the crowd had filtered out, the barricades stacked, and the stage dimmed to a faint electric hum, the pack sat together near the rear of the tour van. The wide desert sky was scattered with stars, cool night air rolling in like a gentle tide after the blistering heat of the day.

Thane leaned against the side of the van, arms folded, his fur ruffled by the wind. His ice-blue eyes scanned the horizon, but his posture was finally relaxed. Beside him, Gabriel lay on his back in the grass, bass propped beside him like a trusted companion, paws laced behind his head as he stared at the stars in content silence.

Mark sat on a folding crate near the small camp lantern they’d set out, sipping a bottle of water, legs crossed. He hadn’t said much since the meet and greet chaos. But there was a faint smile on his muzzle, a twitch at the corner that only those who knew him well would notice.

Cassie and Jonah were off a little ways, tossing handfuls of popcorn at each other from one of the leftover snack trays. Maya, still red from her mom’s surprise appearance, sat barefoot beside Rico, who was casually tuning his guitar by ear. Every so often, Maya let out a muffled groan and muttered something in Spanish, while Rico smirked without looking up.

No one was in a rush. For once, there was no fire to put out, no fan mob to dodge, no Saints to outplay. Just the low murmur of crickets, the soft rustle of breeze, and the afterglow of another incredible show.

Gabriel broke the silence. “You think Mama Feroz is still taking selfies with fans at the taco truck?”

Thane chuckled. “Probably leading them in a conga line by now.”

Maya groaned again, burying her face. “She is never allowed to come to a show again.”

Mark took another sip. “Pretty sure she got more applause than Vandal Saints.”

Everyone laughed.

Gabriel rolled onto his side, eyes meeting Thane’s. “You good, my wolf?”

Thane nodded slowly. “Yeah. I am.”

He looked around the group—laughing, teasing, tired but glowing from the energy of the night.

“We’re good.”

And under the open sky, for just a while, everything was still.

The meet and greet tent behind the Desert Howl main stage was electric, buzzing with fans still high off the show. A long line twisted out the back flap and down the pathway, filled with screaming teens, giddy adults, and at least one guy in a full-body LED wolf suit.

Gabriel signed posters with a relaxed grin, tail wagging lazily. Thane stood beside him, arms crossed, his ice-blue eyes scanning the crowd for trouble out of habit. Mark sat off to the side, quietly sipping water and fixing a minor glitch in the band’s lighting sequence on his tablet.

Then came the moment.

Maya, mid-signature on someone’s guitar case, heard a voice shout from the back of the line:
“¡AY DIOS MÍO, LOOK AT MY BABY ON HER THRONE!”

Her head jerked up.

“Noooo way,” she whispered.

From between two stunned security guards emerged a woman in her fifties, short, stout, with fire in her eyes and red lipstick that could melt steel. A long braid hung over her shoulder, bouncing as she marched forward in wedge heels and a bedazzled denim jacket that read “Mamacita Feroz” across the back.

“MOM?!” Maya yelped, already blushing.

“I told you I’d come see your little rock band someday!”

Gabriel choked on his water. Cassie damn near fell out of her chair.

The security guards looked to Thane, who just shrugged and smiled. “She’s fine. That’s a mami, not a threat.”

Maya’s mom charged in, tackled her daughter in a bone-crushing hug, then turned to the rest of the band like she’d been managing them for years.

“¡Ustedes son geniales! That light thing, the sky-wolf, the fire—Maya, baby, you did that?!”

“Lighting’s Mark,” Maya muttered, still red.

“Pues then Mark, you little genius, if I had three more of you, I’d replace my IT department!”

Mark blinked. “…Thanks?”

The crowd loved it.

Until he showed up.

Bret. Vandal Saints’ own walking ego blister. He strutted through the tent flap uninvited, sunglasses on despite the dusk, and zeroed in on Gabriel and Thane.

“You think you’ve won something? That crowd’ll move on. They always do. You’re a damn meme band.”

Gabriel started to rise. Thane already had one hand curled into a claw.

But before either of them could move, Maya’s mom slammed her purse on the table and stepped forward.

“OYE, CLOWN SHOES!”

The entire tent fell silent.

Bret blinked. “Excuse me?”

She advanced like a bull.

“You come in here, throwing shade at these kids who EARNED their fans? You’re just mad nobody wants to hear your whiny little man-baby sob rock! What’s your band’s name again? Vaginal Stains?”

The tent exploded with laughter.

Bret turned bright red. “It’s VANDAL SAINTS.”

“Ah, perdóname, pendejo,” she fired back. “I forgot. Because nobody cares!”

Cassie covered her mouth. Jonah fell off his stool. Mark simply whispered, “Good grief,” without blinking.

Maya buried her face in her hands. “Mami, please—”

“No, no. Let me finish.”

She jabbed a manicured finger in Bret’s chest.

“You think these people made it ’cause of luck? Gabriel played with his fingers BLEEDING. Thane runs sound tighter than my Tupperware lid drawer. And Maya? Maya grew up watching me work three jobs and still never complain—so don’t you EVER try to cut her down, cabrón.”

Gabriel whispered, wide-eyed, “…Can we hire her?”

Bret backed out of the tent with a muttered curse and nearly walked into the same security guard who’d let Maya’s mom through.

She turned back to the crowd, blew kisses, and grinned. “Now. Who wants a selfie with Mama Feroz?”

Pandemonium.

Maya, hiding her face, muttered to Thane, “I’m never living this down.”

Thane patted her on the shoulder. “You’re not. But damn if she didn’t make a fan outta me.”

Mark, still fixing a script on his tablet, chimed in, “That was… deeply efficient.”

Maya groaned.

Cassie giggled. “So… can she come to all our shows?”

Gabriel just howled with laughter.

The lights went dark.

Not dim — dark.

Across the massive desert crowd, a sudden hush rippled like a shockwave as the giant LED wall went black. Then, a single vertical slash of light split the screen — a slow, burning silver claw mark across total blackness.

The crowd erupted.

Drums thundered. Spotlights flared. Pyro cannons spat twin fireballs skyward as the screen exploded to life with a pulse-pounding montage of wolves, storms, and the glowing red logo of Feral Eclipse.

And then… they were there.

Gabriel stepped into the blast of white light with his bass slung low, tail lashing behind him, silhouette outlined in mist and heat shimmer. The crowd surged forward like the tide. He didn’t speak — just locked his icy blue eyes on the roaring mass of fans and struck the opening chord of Howl Reborn with enough punch to make the ground shake.

Mark, stoic and laser-focused, stood elevated behind the lighting rig, fingers flying over his board like a pianist with fangs. Each drop of the beat triggered laser blasts and pulsing red lights that carved through the fog like a heartbeat. He didn’t smile… but his ears twitched in satisfaction every time the crowd screamed louder.

Jonah launched into the drums like a madman. Cassie’s vocals hit like thunder. Rico’s guitar sliced through the chaos with precision, and Maya—fierce and radiant—fueled the storm beside him.

But it was Gabriel’s solo that lit the spark.

Midway through the third song, the lights dimmed save a single spotlight on him. He stepped to the front of the stage — crowd screaming his name — and ripped a wicked bass solo with a wild grin. A howl rose behind him, echoed by fans across the whole arena.

Thane, perched near the monitors, caught his bandmate’s eye and gave the smallest nod.

Gabriel’s fingers blurred across the strings of his red Ernie Ball DarkRay 5, black pickguard flashing under the lights. It was raw, it was perfect, and it ended with him leaping from a riser as flames burst in a ring behind him.

The howl that followed could’ve cracked concrete.

---

Back at the front barricade, somewhere among the crush of screaming fans, a familiar pair of figures stood watching:

Rowan and his father.

The boy wore a new tour hoodie three sizes too big, his eyes lit with joy. When Gabriel saw him, he gave a wink mid-song — and the LED wall immediately cut to Rowan, front and center, beaming into the camera.

The crowd went nuts.

---

The finale was absolute chaos.

Fireworks. Lasers. A synchronized drone show spelling “FERAL” above the desert sky.

And as the last note echoed into the heat-heavy air, Thane took the backstage mic.

“We’re Feral Eclipse,” he growled low, voice like thunder, “and this world’s been asleep too long.”

He dropped the mic.

The lights went out.

Silence… and then a roar of howls that lasted two full minutes.

The sun had dipped low enough to bake the Saints into silence. Their failed side-stage set had wrapped with a sad, sputtering cover of their only semi-viral song, played to a grand total of twelve disinterested campers and one dude selling corn dogs.

Backstage, tension buzzed hotter than the desert air.

Bret stormed into the shared artist tent, still shirtless, still sweating, and now sporting a visible sunburn that made him look like a cooked shrimp in distressed denim.

Gabriel was mid-laugh with Maya and Jonah when the flap whipped open. His ears twitched.

“Oh hell,” Maya muttered.

Bret stomped up, voice already raised. “I don’t care how many drones or light shows or goddamn howling fans you’ve got—you’re a gimmick. Nothing but claws, eyeliner, and PR stunts.”

Gabriel’s smile didn’t budge. He just leaned back against a gear crate, arms folded, icy blue eyes locked on target. “Aw, Bret. Rough crowd out there today?”

“Go to hell,” Bret snapped, pointing a finger in Gabriel’s face. “You’re just a flavor of the month. You’ll burn out and the world’ll forget you.”

Gabriel gave a slow, infuriating grin. “If we’re so forgettable, why are you this mad we played after you?”

Bret turned scarlet — partly from rage, partly from the sunburn — and shoved Gabriel in the chest.

And that’s when it happened.

Not a punch. Not a brawl.

Just one sound.

A deep, guttural, warning growl.

From right behind him.

Bret froze.

Very slowly, he turned.

Thane was standing there.

Six-foot-two. Muscular. Broad. Brown-furred with flecks of gray. Clawed hands half-curled, ice-blue eyes glowing faintly in the filtered light of the tent.

Not saying a word.

Just watching.

The growl rumbled again, just under his breath — low and ancient and undeniably predatory.

Bret’s finger dropped. His bravado crumbled like a dry leaf.

Mark appeared in the background holding a sandwich and muttered, “That’s what happens when you run bad code on a garbage system.”

Gabriel leaned in, just a breath away from Bret’s face, and whispered, “You’ve got five seconds to walk away. Or I let him finish the sentence.”

Bret backed up. Fast.

He almost tripped over a folding chair on the way out. Someone near the stage curtain snickered, and a crew member who’d caught the whole thing on their phone immediately started uploading it.

The video would later be titled:
“When You Step To The Pack… And The Pack Steps Back.”

---

A moment later, Mark took a bite of his sandwich and grunted, “Ten bucks says that clip hits a million before midnight.”

Gabriel grinned as he clapped Thane on the shoulder. “You didn’t even raise a claw.”

Thane just shrugged. “Didn’t have to.”

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.”