The crowd gives itself to the energy in the arena.
We ride the hit of the opening song’s final note together, the arena shaking under our feet, and I let myself feel it fully—that rush, that sense of standing exactly where I was always meant to be.
Then the lights drop.
The transition hums low and slow, acoustic tones spilling into the sudden hush. I move down the catwalk, boots striking in time, posture perfect. This is where I get to make eye contact and interact with the fans in my movements.
The fans crying into their hands, kids clutching handmade signs, couples pressed together as if our music stitched them into one piece.
I let my gaze linger, giving each pocket of the crowd its moment. This part of the set isn’t about spectacle, it’s about individual attention. About learning how to split myself into thousands of moments and hand each one to someone different without ever losing the thread of who I am.
This song asks for that kind of care.
Shiloh wrote it years ago, back before Umbra existed. It’s about a quiet love affair that survives on whispers and side glances, on stolen hours that feel sacred because no one else knows they exist. And how there’s a type of love that can slip into your life and settle under your skin and convince you that secrecy is safety until it isn’t.
We rehearsed this entire show for months before our first live show. Twelve to sixteen-hour days in empty warehouses, tape marks on concrete floors standing in for the large stage we had only ever seen 3D renderings of. By the time this tour was announced, we knew exactly what we wanted: ownership of every inch of the stage. Our venues are so large, I knew I couldn’t just stand and sing; I wanted to move with intention so no corner of the crowd felt forgotten.
Every step is timed to the lighting cues, the camera sweeps, and the rise and fall of the sound. I know where I’m going before my foot even leaves the ground, because my body learned this path long before tonight.
The catwalk carries me forward, my movement steady, spine straight, every movement precise. The lights begin their slow migration toward the secret VIP section, and I feel the shift ripple through the room before it lands.
My big brother is there.
There’s nothing that stands out about our VIP section. Family goes there when they can make it, and when they can’t, Rowan fills the empty seats with fans who didn’t have tickets but waited outside anyway.
Orion doesn’t get to come often. His world doesn’t bend around tour schedules and encores. But when he can show up, it’s because he carved the time out with his own hands.
Our eyes meet for a second.
I can’t wave or give any type of acknowledgment that the cameras could catch. Just a look held long enough to say everything we never say out loud. As I draw a breath to turn away, I notice the man standing beside my big brother is the one person I never wanted to see again
Something inside me fractures cleanly.
Lucian.
Right there, he’s close enough to Orion that there’s no room for doubt. No space for my brain to soften it or pretend I’m mistaken. He isn’t a trick of the lights or a memory dragged up by adrenaline. He’s real.
LucianfuckingSterling.
My voice fractures on the next line, a raw, audible fracture that slips past whatever control I thought I had, and spills straight into the mic. The sound carries, thin and exposed, as if it has peeled back a layer and left my soul visible to the arena.
The crowd answers with a cheer that mistakes the accident for intention, as if it were a moment of vulnerability crafted for them. They don’t know the sound was ripped from my soul from seeing a ghost standing twenty feet in front of me.
I let the crack live. I lean into it, roughen the next note, let the tremor turn into texture. I make it part of the song. I give them heartbreak dressed up as artistry, devastation disguised as intimacy.
The arena erupts like I just gave them my soul, and in a way, they just witnessed it crack wide-open.
Rowan is somewhere offstage, watching from the wings like he always does. As tour manager, he’s the architect behind the chaos. He’s the reason this exists at all. The one who refused to let Korbyn’s talent get swallowed by assumptions, aesthetics, and industry bullshit. Rowan built a band around his little sister when no one would take her seriously as a musician.
The music took off faster than anyone had planned. Our albums dominated the charts, causing a demand that turned into a roar the moment fans decided Umbra wasn’t meant to stay contained to screens and shadows. Touring wasn’t something we planned; we were summoned.
And now here we are, years later, on our first world tour.
The spotlight settles, clean and bright, and I deliver opening lyrics to our next song with control and weight. The crowd answers immediately, volume surging, emotion cresting as they feel the shift without understanding why.
Turning back toward the full sweep of the arena, I lift my chin as the song builds again. The sound expands and the lights flare, causing the moment to stretch wide enough to hold me.
I lift my hand on cue, let the emotion show in my movements the way fans love, let them read the tremor as passion instead of the truth tearing through my chest.
