The tour rolled into Boise under a blanket of pale blue sky and the unmistakable feeling that something glorious was about to go down.
The venue—a gritty outdoor amphitheater nestled against the edge of the city—was already humming with activity by the time the Feral Eclipse bus pulled in. Crew members unloaded gear like a precision strike force, cables coiled, lighting trusses aligned. It should have felt like any other stop on their runaway-success tour.
Except for one small, explosive detail:
They were sharing the bill with Vandal Saints.
As the band stepped off the bus and into the warm afternoon sun, Diesel paused at the bottom step, sunglasses in place, coffee in hand. He stared across the parking lot at a weathered black trailer parked crooked near the loading dock.
The logo stenciled on the side read VANDAL SAINTS in cracked red gothic font.
Diesel let out a sharp bark of laughter.
“Oh, hell yes,” he grinned. “They lived.”
Gabriel was right behind him, dragging a case of gear and already bouncing with energy. “Please tell me I get to heckle them during soundcheck. I’ve been training for this moment.”
Thane raised an eyebrow, glancing at the set list. “Permission granted.”
Cassie popped in beside them, half-eaten granola bar in hand. “If he’s heckling, I want the kazoo. I brought four.”
“You brought four kazoos?” Emily asked, emerging from the bus with a clipboard.
Cassie beamed. “Color-coded. I’m not a heathen.”
The Vandal Saints were already inside, trying very hard to pretend they hadn’t noticed the arrival of the one band they absolutely did not want to be co-headlining with.
Bret—their bleach-blond, vape-clutching lead singer—paced nervously backstage in designer boots and unnecessary sunglasses, sipping cold brew like it was a nervous tic. His bandmates lingered in awkward silence, clearly hoping the fog machine worked better than last time.
They didn’t say a word when Feral Eclipse rolled in. Didn’t offer a nod, didn’t scowl, didn’t blink.
Because then Thane appeared.
Barepaw. Clawed. Calm.
He stalked across the stage hauling a full coil of snake cable across one shoulder like it weighed nothing, eyes scanning the truss layout. He passed Bret with a single glance.
And Bret froze.
Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just turned very, very slowly back toward his cold brew.
Gabriel caught it from the corner of his eye and nearly doubled over. “Oh no. Oh yes. He remembers.”
Soundcheck, Thirty Minutes Later
It started when Vandal Saints ran their mic test.
Their guitarist’s rig was out of tune. The fog machine wheezed to life with all the enthusiasm of a dying vacuum cleaner. And Bret’s opening vocal run was a wailing, pitchy disaster that echoed through the arena like a banshee being stepped on.
That’s when Gabriel, Jonah, and Maya gathered stage left like misbehaving schoolkids at recess.
Diesel leaned against the edge of the loading ramp, arms folded, and pulled out a tiny plastic megaphone he’d definitely kept in a drawer for this exact moment.
“HEY BRET,” he called. “DON’T FORGET TO LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP THIS TIME.”
Cassie joined with a perfect kazoo rendition of their one radio hit, “Ashes in Stereo.”
Emily held up a handmade sign that read:
WE ❤️ YOUR ONE HIT
(No, really. Just that one.)
Maya followed with hers:
FREE COUCH FIRE TONIGHT – FIRST 100 FANS GET SUNGLASSES.
Jonah played back the THUD sound from their last fall—perfectly timed to Bret’s jump off a riser—and added fake reverb through the sideboard.
No one on stage said a word. Not the Saints. Not their crew. Not Bret.
Because Thane was standing just behind the drum kit, arms crossed, silently watching.
His gaze was unreadable. Cold, calm, patient. Like someone already mentally preparing to route cables and stage-manage a better band with far less effort.
Bret gulped audibly.
One of the Saints stage techs muttered, “Aren’t you gonna say something back?”
Bret, sweating under his hoodie, shook his head. “You insult the werewolf. I’m staying alive today.”
Later That Night
The crowd was electric. Feral Eclipse took the stage with thunder in their paws and howls in their hearts. Pyro. Lights. A functioning fog machine. Gabriel tore across the risers like a rock-and-roll hurricane, Cassie belted a perfect scream into the night sky, and Mark’s lighting design looked like it had been crafted by the gods themselves.
They closed with Field Notes from the Stars, bathed in white and amber. The crowd cried. People hugged. Phones lit the air.
The Vandal Saints followed with flat lighting, flubbed chords, and exactly one person yelling “Play the couch song!” from the back.
They didn’t stick around after the show.
Back at the bus, Diesel kicked his boots up, tossed a setlist in the trash, and muttered with a chuckle, “I give ‘em one more tour before they change their name to ‘Vandal Ain’ts.’”
Gabriel snorted. “New band goal: keep terrifying them into silence forever.”
Emily giggled as she updated the crew log.
Cassie clinked her water bottle against Jonah’s. “To karmic justice.”
And Thane, already rerouting stage inventory for the next stop, glanced up just once—smiling ever so faintly as the Saints’ van peeled out of the parking lot without so much as a goodbye.