Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

They barely made it ten steps off the plane before the trouble started.

At first, the Feral Eclipse pack thought the serious-looking TSA crew standing at the jet bridge was just more overzealous fan chaos. But then came the stern orders. The hand gestures. The sudden presence of armed airport police.

And before anyone could say, “Let’s post one more cockpit selfie,” the entire group was being briskly ushered — herded — through a series of back hallways, away from the main terminal and down into the bowels of Will Rogers World Airport. Straight to the security office.

Emily was white-knuckling her phone like it was a crucifix. Jonah kept muttering about whether he’d packed deodorant that counted as a “liquid explosive.” And Gabriel, caught in the middle of it all, looked more like a kicked puppy than a powerful, grinning werewolf.

Inside the cold, institutional interrogation room, Gabriel sat cuffed to a metal table, shoulders hunched and ears drooping. Across from him, the airport police chief leaned in with a steely glare.

“You impersonated a pilot. Do you understand how serious that is?”

Gabriel’s ears twitched. “I—I wasn’t flying anything! It was just a photo! The real captain was right there!”

“And if that photo had leaked before we confirmed with the flight crew, do you know what happens to airports that go viral for the wrong reasons?!”

“I swear,” Gabriel pleaded, eyes wide, “it was just for fun. The captain’s daughter is a fan — he invited me! I didn’t touch anything! I’m not trying to be… a terrorist werewolf pilot or whatever!”

The chief didn’t flinch. He stood, told Gabriel to stay put (as if he had a choice), and left the room.

Gabriel sat there alone, breathing hard, visibly trembling. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like judgment incarnate.

Out in the waiting area, Thane had his arms folded tightly across his chest, watching everything through the one-way glass like he was deciding how many federal laws he’d break to get his packmate out of there. Mark looked like he was about to chew through the chair leg.

When the chief returned, it was… different. He wasn’t carrying forms. No backup. Just a phone in one hand, and a goofy smirk on his face.

“Well,” the chief said casually, setting his phone down. “The captain confirms your story. Apparently, he’s the one in hot water now. Said he couldn’t pass up the chance for his daughter to see a selfie with Gabriel from Feral Eclipse in the cockpit.”

Gabriel blinked. “So… I’m not going to prison?”

“No. But I am gonna need a selfie too, or no one at poker night is gonna believe this.”

Relieved beyond words, Gabriel instinctively stood up. The handcuffs jingled… and then snapped open as he stretched his arms.

The chief’s face paled.

Gabriel froze.

“Oh my god — I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear! I forgot I was cuffed! I just — uh — flexed!”

“Son…” The chief stared at the twisted metal. “You do realize these cuffs are department issue.”

“…Sorry?”

A long pause. Then the chief sighed, rubbed his forehead, and said, “Just smile for the damn picture.”

Gabriel grinned, even though he still looked like he might pass out. The two posed for the world’s weirdest “get out of jail free” selfie, and the chief even had him sign the clipboard he’d brought in as if it were a band poster.

Out in the waiting area, the rest of the pack stood when Gabriel came out. Thane’s eyes swept over him immediately, checking for bruises, cuffs, dignity.

Gabriel walked up and shoved the selfie photo into Thane’s hands.

“I’m officially not allowed to sit in cockpits anymore.”

Thane blinked. “I would hope not.”

“I also broke the handcuffs.”

Mark muttered, “Of course you did.”

The airport officials escorted them back out to the main concourse with a nervous mix of respect and regret, half-glancing at the social media alerts now lighting up their phones. Emily had already captioned her next post:

“Captain Gabriel: Cleared for takeoff. Cleared of all charges.”

The tour was home.

And somehow, still airborne.

It turned out, after all the backstage brawls, Amsterdam cookie disasters, and Milan meet-and-greets from hell, that the quietest part of the entire European tour… was thirty-seven thousand feet in the air.

First class was almost too comfortable. Thane actually slept. Mark had noise-canceling headphones and a perfectly chilled ginger ale. Maya and Cassie watched movies back-to-back, whispering jokes through half-bitten biscotti. Jonah sprawled out with both arms flopped over the armrests like a defeated octopus. Even Rico passed out halfway through reading a paperback thriller he’d bought at the airport.

Gabriel, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Which, of course, made Thane sit upright with a sudden jolt of suspicion.

Emily wandered over a few minutes later, grinning like she had just unlocked a new level of nonsense. “Uh. So… Gabriel made friends with the pilots.”

Thane blinked. “Come again?”

“They let him in the cockpit.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, apparently the captain’s daughter is a massive fan. Has all the merch. And Gabriel was being so… Gabriel that he ended up getting invited up front. The co-pilot looked vaguely concerned, but I think the captain was too starstruck to care.”

Mark, who had one eye cracked open under his headphones, grunted. “We’re gonna be a federal offense by the time we land.”

Emily held up her phone. “Wanna see the photo?”

The entire pack crowded around her screen.

There he was: Gabriel, seated in the cockpit of a massive Airbus A340, grinning like an overgrown cub, wearing the captain’s hat at a jaunty angle. His clawed paws were hovering dramatically over the controls as if he were about to land the damn thing himself. The captain stood behind him, beaming like a dad at graduation.

“This is the most Gabriel thing that’s ever happened,” Rico muttered, shaking his head.

Emily giggled. “I captioned it ‘We let him fly the plane. Pray for us.’”

“Post it,” Thane sighed. “Might as well give the internet something to scream about before we touch down.”

---

By the time the wheels hit the tarmac at Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City, the post had already gone viral. News outlets were calling it the “Werewolf Pilot Moment,” and fans were arguing online whether or not it was Photoshopped.

It wasn’t. And they had the muffled cabin speaker audio to prove it, where the pilot had said, “We’d like to thank Captain Gabriel for his brief command of the flight… and hope the FAA isn’t listening.”

The tour was officially back on American soil. And something told them Oklahoma had no idea what was coming next.

The pack hadn’t even made it out of the hotel lobby before chaos struck.

Thane was the first one downstairs, black polo shirt wrinkle-free, carry-on slung over one shoulder, and the expression of a wolf who really needed a gallon of coffee and a quiet terminal gate. He paused in the archway as a now-familiar chorus of gasps, shrieks, and camera flashes exploded from the cluster of fans that had somehow increased overnight in the hotel foyer.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered.

Behind him, the elevator dinged and opened to reveal the rest of the pack — bleary-eyed, half-dressed, some still chewing the hotel’s free breakfast rolls. Gabriel stepped out looking like he hadn’t slept at all and grinned wide like he was the Grand Marshal of a chaos parade.

“Oh good, they waited for us,” he said cheerfully.

Cassie blinked into the crowd. “Is that guy holding a homemade Gabriel plushie?”

“Yes,” Maya deadpanned. “And it’s disturbingly well-made.”

“Okay, eyes up, bags tight,” Thane growled. “We’re not missing this flight because someone wants you to sign their thigh.”

“But what if it’s a really nice thigh?” Rico grinned.

Mark groaned. “I need two coffees before you talk like that.”

Security had been warned, but they were vastly unprepared. By the time the pack made it into the shuttle van, four security guards had been steamrolled by a group of teenage superfans trying to get a selfie with Jonah (he posed mid-struggle), and one elderly tourist had mistaken Gabriel for an avant-garde Disney mascot and asked if he’d be at the parade later.

The drive to the airport was no better.

Every time the bus slowed for a light, fans on scooters and bikes zipped up alongside, waving signs and phones. Thane gripped his seat like it was a lifeline. Gabriel waved out the window like a lunatic.

“We’re gonna miss our gate,” Thane muttered.

“No, we’re gonna make memories,” Gabriel replied, tossing one last cookie out the window to a girl in a Feral Eclipse hoodie who burst into tears.

At the airport entrance, the chaos reached a fever pitch.

Dozens more fans. Drones overhead. One guy in a werewolf fursuit doing cartwheels near the departures sign. Security tried to create a human chain to get the band through the front doors, but Gabriel somehow ended up crowd-surfing over a group of screaming college students before Thane grabbed him by the tail and yanked him back to Earth.

Inside, things didn’t calm down so much as rearrange into a different flavor of madness. Check-in was interrupted by autograph requests. Bag drop became a photo session. Customs flagged Jonah’s drumsticks. Emily got mistaken for a pop star. And Mark nearly growled at a child trying to yank a tuft of his fur as a “souvenir.”

By the time they made it to the terminal, it looked like a crime scene in a merch store.

Every member of the pack was surrounded by exhausted airport staff, wide-eyed onlookers, and at least two travelers trying to sell their boarding passes just to stick around.

Thane finally corralled them all near the gate, pressed both paws to his temples, and muttered, “Europe was amazing. But if anyone speaks to me before we’re at cruising altitude, I’m jumping out the window.”

Gabriel beamed and patted him on the back. “Love you too, Alpha.”

Somehow, through sheer force of will and airline pity, they all made it onto the plane.

Destination: Oklahoma City.

And Lord help the Will Rogers Airport when this pack landed back home.

Getting back to the hotel was like trying to flee a battlefield made entirely of fan selfies, glitter signs, and security tape. The band barely made it to the waiting vans before being mobbed in the alley behind the Amsterdam venue, with Mark practically growling at a group of teenagers who had somehow found time to paint “MARRY ME, CASSIE!” across the windshield in fluorescent nail polish. The only thing louder than the chants of “COOKIE WOLF!” was Gabriel himself, still draped in his post-show robe, trying to sign someone’s baby with a sharpie while Thane bodily dragged him into the vehicle by the scruff.

The hotel lobby was no better.

Word had clearly gotten out.

Dozens of fans were packed shoulder-to-shoulder inside the marble-floored entrance, pressed up against velvet ropes and visibly vibrating. Security staff were red-faced and overwhelmed, whispering furiously into radios while the elevator dinged like it was on the edge of a breakdown.

The moment the elevator doors opened, chaos exploded.

Shrieking. Crying. Phones in the air. One girl fainted at the mere sight of Jonah, who caught her mid-collapse and accidentally dropped his phone in the process. A very determined boy wearing full-body werewolf pajamas tried to hand Gabriel a box of cookies — which Thane intercepted with extreme prejudice and promptly handed off to Mark like radioactive waste.

Rico and Cassie were signing shirts as they walked. Maya had her hood up and her head down, but was still grinning. Thane, jaw clenched and eyes flicking like a security drone, kept the group tight and focused.

“Go. Go. Do not stop. No autographs. Get upstairs before we end up signing the furniture,” he growled.

Gabriel, delightfully unhelpful, grinned as the elevator doors closed behind them and growled, “They love us.”

Mark crossed his arms. “They’re one sugar cookie away from trying to chew through the glass.”

Upstairs, the luxury suite floor was — mercifully — quiet. The moment keycards were swiped and doors opened, everyone seemed to collectively exhale.

Thane walked into his room, dropped his backpack, locked the door, then fell face-first onto the bed with a muffled groan.

Gabriel, in the next room over, finally peeled off his robe and crawled under the covers like a burrowing animal.

Mark, after triple-checking the lock, turned off the lights, yanked the blackout curtains closed, and sighed into the darkness.

Somewhere across the hallway, Jonah had already passed out mid-text on the couch, and Emily, still buzzing from the night, was curled up in an armchair beside the window watching Amsterdam sparkle below like a living constellation.

Even in a city that never seemed to sleep, the Feral Eclipse pack finally, finally did.

The flight to Oklahoma City was in the morning.

But tonight — this very last night on European soil — they slept like wolves who had run long, played hard, and left every single stage howling their name.

Backstage was a tangle of adrenaline, laughter, and pure secondhand embarrassment as the pack finally stumbled off the stage in a haze of spotlights and screaming fans. The hallway reeked of sweat, stage fog, and stroopwafels, and someone — probably Jonah — had managed to snag an entire tray of leftover Dutch pastries and was now carrying it like a sacred artifact.

Gabriel flopped onto a beat-up black couch near the green room, limbs dramatically splayed, the bathrobe now tied heroically around his waist like some kind of post-show toga. His eyes were half-lidded, but a crooked grin still curled across his muzzle.

“I’m not saying I’m a genius,” he slurred lazily, “but I did just discover a new chord shape using only my mind.”

Mark sank into the armchair beside him and muttered dryly, “You also tried to name the fog machine and asked a security guard if he could ‘hear colors.’”

Gabriel just grinned wider. “His aura was very teal.”

Thane sat on the floor nearby, elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples as the rest of the pack filed in, still riding the high of the show. “He played perfectly,” Thane said aloud, mostly to himself. “Against every law of reality, gravity, and sobriety… he nailed every damn note.”

“Feral instinct,” Rico said with a grin, offering a cheers motion with his water bottle.

Emily was leaning against the wall, cheeks flushed and giggling, trying to keep her phone steady while reviewing clips. “Social media already lost its mind. He’s trending again. The hashtag is just… ‘#CookieWolf.’”

Cassie groaned and covered her face with both hands. “Kill me.”

Jonah leaned over the stroopwafel tray. “I say we buy stock in Dutch bakeries. Could be a whole new merch line.”

“New rule,” Thane grunted, shooting a tired glance toward Gabriel. “No unlabeled snacks before a show. I don’t care if it’s cookies, gummies, or magical forest mushrooms — ask first.”

Gabriel lazily lifted one claw. “What if the cookie speaks to me?”

Thane didn’t even hesitate. “Then I get to speak to you — with a rolled-up setlist.”

The room broke into laughter, warm and easy.

The chaos was real, but the bond was stronger.

And as the night cooled and the gear was packed away, the Feral Eclipse pack settled into a kind of contented stillness in the dim backstage lounge. Tired, loud, weird, and utterly united.

Gabriel, already half-asleep again on the couch, murmured through a yawn:

“…Still tasted amazing though.”

The moment the green room door swung open and Gabriel waltzed in wearing a bandana on his head, someone’s sunglasses, and a bathrobe from the hotel with “I am the wind” written on the back in Sharpie, Thane knew they were in deep, deep trouble.

“Gabriel…” Thane stood from the couch, arms crossed, brows already furrowed with industrial strength. “How are you feeling?”

Gabriel struck a pose like a pirate lost in an IKEA. “I am ready. I am transcendent. I have named every lighting fixture in the venue, and I just told the coffee machine my deepest fears.”

Cassie, who was half into her stage boots and watching from across the room, whispered, “We’re all gonna die.”

Maya had already locked eyes with Thane and mouthed, Do we cancel?

“No,” Thane muttered back. “Not unless he starts trying to communicate with the subsnakes again.”

Mark sighed from his perch on the side of a road case. “I told him not to touch the cookies. Told all of you. This is what happens when you let a caffeinated Labrador into a kitchen.”

“I heard that!” Gabriel beamed as he flopped into a spinning chair and did an entire loop, arms out like a conductor in a gale.

Emily peeked in through the door, face pale. “Uh, crowd’s already chanting. They think it’s part of the act. Someone made a cardboard cutout of Gabriel with a stroopwafel crown.”

Thane looked up at the ceiling like he was asking the universe for strength.

Cassie looked at Thane. “Can he even play?”

Rico, leaning against the wall and sipping a tiny espresso like the calmest man in the world, shrugged. “Honestly? Might be the best set he’s ever played. He’s looser than a sock in a hurricane.”

A moment passed.

Then Gabriel stood up, looked everyone dead in the eye, and said in the calmest, most serious tone imaginable:
“I know every note. I have never been more in sync with the universe’s musical core. Let me go. Unleash the chaos.”

There was silence.

Then Jonah burst out laughing.

“Alright,” Thane groaned. “But Rico, I want you shadowing him the entire set. If he starts licking the monitor wedges again —”

“Copy that,” Rico said, cracking his knuckles. “Gabriel Wrangler Protocol engaged.”

Maya smirked. “Let the bass wolf bass.”

And somehow — somehow — Feral Eclipse walked onstage that night to thunderous screams, with Gabriel still slightly dazed but fully functional. The second his clawed fingers hit those strings, something clicked. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was just Gabriel being Gabriel… enhanced.

Either way, he nailed the opening riff.

And the entire venue, already roaring, exploded when he spun mid-note, slid on his knees across the stage, and screamed, “AMSTERDAM, I HAVE ASCENDED!!”

Thane sighed through his headset as he managed the mix.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “We’re never gonna live this one down.”

The meet and greet was already chaotic before anyone realized what Gabriel had eaten.

The venue had cordoned off a gorgeous upper concourse space lined with windows overlooking the canal, glowing fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and a long stretch of tables where the band was seated, signing everything from guitar straps to handmade plushies. The crowd was massive — more than they expected—and Amsterdam’s famously chill vibe turned into full-on hysteria when fans caught their first glimpse of the werewolves.

“Someone just fainted,” Jonah whispered across the table, pointing subtly as a venue medic gently rolled someone out on a chair.

“That’s the fourth one,” Maya muttered, adjusting her marker grip. “Are we sure we’re not toxic?”

“We are intoxicating,” Gabriel said smugly… and then immediately took another bite of the cookie he’d been handed by a sweet-looking older woman about fifteen minutes earlier.

It was buttery. It was delicious. It was… suspiciously relaxing.

“Gabriel,” Thane said slowly, narrowing his eyes as he glanced toward his plate, “where did you get those?”

Gabriel grinned lazily and pointed to the table beside them, where the sweet old woman was now proudly handing a second box of her homemade Dutch goodies to Cassie. “She said they were ‘special.’ Like local favorites.”

Thane froze.

Cassie froze.

Rico looked over and blinked.

“No,” Cassie said, a hand going to her chest. “No, no, no, no—”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Rico yelled as if in slow motion, diving across the table in a full body lunge.

But it was too late. Gabriel, looking utterly pleased with himself, had just polished off cookie number three.

The moment of silence that followed could’ve powered the entire city.

“Gabriel,” Thane said carefully, “those are probably loaded.”

Gabriel blinked. “With flavor?”

Cassie grabbed the box, sniffed it, and groaned. “With weed, wolf-for-brains!”

Gabriel stared at her. “Oh.”

Then he blinked again.

Then he laughed.

And then, slowly… Gabriel slid out of his chair, belly-first onto the floor, and simply laid there like a melted, content puddle of black-furred chaos.

“I regret nothing,” he declared to the ceiling. “Bring me the tulips. I wish to speak with them.”

The fans were loving every second. Phones came out in droves. Live streams. TikToks. Memes were being born in real time.

Emily was trying to help Gabriel sit up, which resulted in him asking if her hair was made of dreams. Mark was standing off to the side muttering, “This is why I don’t eat baked goods. You never know what’s in them.”

Jonah was laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his face. “We are so banned from this country.”

“No,” Thane sighed, rubbing his temples, “we’re about to go more viral than the pancake house incident.”

Gabriel was now singing to a Dutch waffle someone had placed in his hands.

Maya leaned in. “You want me to cut this short?”

“No,” Thane said, defeated but grinning. “Let it ride. Let the internet have this.”

Across the concourse, a staff member tripped trying to hold back another wave of fans, and two security guards were taking selfies with Jonah, who was doing finger guns and yelling, “Don’t do drugs, kids! Unless you’re Gabriel!”

Back at the main table, Gabriel had curled up under the tablecloth and was quietly mumbling about the greatness of stroopwafels.

Cassie looked at Thane and said with a perfectly straight face, “I am never doing a sober meet and greet again.”

He stared at her.

“I’m kidding!” she added quickly. “I like my job. Mostly.”

Outside, the canal glowed with city lights, and the streets were humming with chatter and laughter—none louder than what was coming from the upper concourse of the arena.

It was supposed to be a normal meet and greet.

Instead, it became legend.

The ride into Amsterdam was drenched in late-afternoon gold, canals shimmering between narrow rows of crooked houses, the skyline full of spires and stories. The pack’s sleek red rental bus curved gently along the old city streets, drawing attention from tourists and locals alike — especially once someone recognized the logo on the side.

By the time they reached the venue near the water’s edge, a modest modern arena surrounded by bike racks and curious fans, the chaos was already building. Gabriel had pressed his nose against the window like a kid, tail wagging invisibly as he shouted, “I see FERAL ECLIPSE signs already! This place rules!”

“Do not hop out of the moving bus,” Thane warned automatically, already texting the local crew to let them know they were five minutes out.

Their driver — a lean, chatty Dutchman named Arjen — chuckled as he pulled into the private loading area. “Welcome to Amsterdam, rockstars. You’re gonna like this one.”

The minute the bus stopped, fans started appearing out of nowhere. From behind bikes, around corners, even from canal boats. A few had paint on their cheeks — stylized werewolf slashes or icy blue paw prints — and one held a massive cardboard sign that just read: “BITE ME, GABRIEL!”

“Tempting,” Gabriel muttered with a snort.

As the pack stepped off the bus, the staff was already holding back a small but enthusiastic crowd that had gathered near the gated backstage area. Security and venue managers—one of whom looked like she was barely holding it together — were waiting at the dock doors with clipboards and starstruck grins.

“You’re here!” she blurted, trying to regain her professionalism. “Welcome! We’ve got your green rooms ready, soundcheck is at five, and we’ve already cleared the upper concourse for the meet and greet. I… I’m so sorry, but could I get a picture before everyone else?”

Cassie gave her a warm smile. “Only if you take one with us.”

The woman looked like she might actually cry.

Load-in was a breeze. After weeks of European shows, the crew worked like a machine — even with Gabriel running his mouth the entire time and Mark muttering under his breath about missing his perfectly labeled Oklahoma cable bins. The venue had gone all out, though: local pastries in the green room, Dutch flags with paw-print overlays hanging near the stage, and even a custom coffee blend in honor of Gabriel called Moonrise Roast.

“You’re kidding me,” Gabriel whispered when he saw the name on the bag. “This is going in my suitcase.”

As Thane checked the final line items with the venue techs, Jonah and Rico tested lighting angles while Maya practiced warmups in the hallway. Outside, fans were already lining up — some in costume, a few holding glowing signs, and one dressed head-to-toe like a Dutch folklore werewolf, wooden shoes and all.

Mark glanced through the security cameras and gave a low whistle. “They really love their wolves out here.”

“And we love them back,” Thane murmured, watching as the Amsterdam sun began to dip lower over the sparkling canal just beyond the loading dock.

It was the last show of the European tour.

Time to make it count.

The dressing room in Milan had never smelled so much like adrenaline and pizza.

Discarded setlists, half-empty water bottles, and a pile of merch someone forgot to hand out were strewn across the sofas. Jonah had somehow wedged himself sideways in an armchair, still sweating, hair stuck to his forehead, grinning like a lunatic. Cassie was on the floor, back against Gabriel’s leg while he absently ruffled her hair with a clawed hand, still humming the last bassline. Maya was flopped belly-down on the low coffee table, poking at her phone and cursing the lighting in her backstage selfie. Rico was pacing, wired as hell, randomly riffing on an unplugged electric guitar with no amp, each note barely audible.

Mark sat in the corner, feet up on a road case, calmly sipping from a tiny espresso cup someone had handed him with far too much reverence. His eyes flicked toward the door as Thane walked back in, phone in hand, expression focused but calm.

“All right, wolves and wildcards,” Thane said, lifting the phone and flipping through a few notes. “We’ve got one last European stop: Amsterdam.”

Gabriel raised his coffee cup in salute. “The land of canals, bicycles, and legally questionable brownies. Let’s goooo.”

Thane gave him a deadpan look. “You’re not touching a single edible before the show. I’m serious.”

“I didn’t say I was —”

“You were thinking it.”
Gabriel held his claws up defensively. “Maybe.”

The rest of the room chuckled.

Thane sat on the arm of Mark’s road case, reading from the tour notes. “It’s a mid-size arena show. About 12,000 capacity. Solid ticket sales. Local crews are great. Venue’s right on the water — should be beautiful. We load in two days from now.”

He looked around at the circle. “That’ll be the last one before we head back to the States.”

The mood shifted just a little. Still bright. Still buzzing from Milan. But a low ripple of home stirred in the silence.

Jonah piped up first. “Not gonna lie… I kind of miss our totally unsafe backyard shows.”

Emily nodded from her seat by the mini fridge, pulling her knees to her chest. “And the den. The noise. The neighbors. Mark yelling at drones.”

Mark made a low grumbling sound. “Those things are a privacy nightmare.”

“We know, buddy,” Cassie laughed, leaning over to nudge him.

Rico cracked a smile. “I mean, Milan was wild. But I do miss people nearly setting your garage on fire during cookouts.”

“I miss our driveway mosh pits,” Gabriel added, already nostalgic. “And Thane trying to herd 200 people out of our yard like a grumpy HOA-approved sheepdog.”

Thane rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

The moment settled into a peaceful hum. Milan had been unforgettable. But home was calling. The den. The chaos. The sense of grounded reality in the middle of all the fame. The place where fans climbed fences and grilled with werewolves like it was normal.

They’d do Amsterdam proud. They’d give Europe one last howl to remember them by.

But after that… it’d be time to head back where it all started.

And maybe stock up on hamburger patties.

Milan wasn’t ready.

From the first thunderous chord to the final roar of feedback, the Feral Eclipse show ignited the venue like a controlled explosion of fire, claws, and pure sonic rebellion. The stage itself was wrapped in LED panels that pulsed with the rhythm of the crowd — each heartbeat echoed by thousands of stomping feet.

The lights dropped. A single low growl hummed through the speakers.

Then Gabriel emerged from the shadows, bass slung low, eyes glowing with mischief and voltage. His first chord hit like a detonation. Rico and Maya flanked him, carving riffs and rhythm through the smoke. Cassie stormed forward in a flurry of crimson spotlight and hair whip, commanding the crowd like she owned their bloodstreams. Jonah, half-blurred in motion, tore into the drums with such speed it looked like the kit was trying to escape him.

The Italian fans were ravenous, louder than any crowd yet on the European leg. They howled back at Gabriel between songs, chanted his name, and waved signs in both English and Italian. One read: “GABRIEL MI AMORE LUPINO.” Gabriel grinned mid-song, pointed at the sign, and screamed into the mic:
“YOU’RE ALL MINE TONIGHT, MILAN!”

That set the crowd off like a volcano.

The lighting was something out of a fever dream. Mark’s team had rigged a spiraling truss above the band that rotated slowly, casting golden beams like an ancient sundial in hellfire. Custom pyro units — local law barely permitting them — erupted in carefully timed bursts, echoing the snarl of each riff.

During one slower ballad — “Stay With Me Through the Fire” — Cassie knelt at the edge of the stage. A little girl in the front row, no more than eleven, reached up with tear-filled eyes. Without missing a note, Cassie passed her mic down and let her sing one soft, perfect line. The arena melted.

Backstage, the venue’s lighting techs and engineers had gathered to watch from the wings, slack-jawed. One muttered in disbelief:
“This isn’t a band. This is a pack of wild gods.”

Gabriel heard it. And oh, did he run with it.

With the final song, “Feral Eclipse,” the truss descended like a halo. Gabriel sprinted across the stage with such speed the wireless camera op could barely keep up. He vaulted off the riser, did a full flip, and landed in a perfect crouch at the front edge—bass never missing a beat.

He threw his head back and howled.

Not theatrically. Not as a bit.

As a wolf.

The crowd lost it. Screams turned to sobs. Phones dropped. Some fans fell to their knees like they’d witnessed a religious event. One guy in the pit simply fainted.

Cassie’s final scream split the night open. Flames burst from the stage. The screens exploded into a final burst of white light.

Then — darkness.

A moment of pure silence.

Then the sound of 25,000 humans chanting:
“FERAL ECLIPSE! FERAL ECLIPSE! FERAL ECLIPSE!”

The lights rose, revealing the entire band standing hand-in-hand at the front of the stage. Gabriel was shaking. Cassie was crying. Jonah flung his drumsticks into the crowd with such force one embedded in the backdrop.

As the last bow ended, Thane turned slightly to Mark, both wolves panting with adrenaline.
“That… that may have been the best one yet.”
Mark simply nodded. “That’ll be hard to top.”

And with that, the pack left the stage—sweaty, breathless, and burning with the fire of 25,000 Italian hearts echoing in their chests.

They had come to Milan.

And Milan would never forget them.