Chapter 1: Rumors in The Black Fang

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The tavern door opened with a hiss, not a creak.

Warm wind poured in from the street, heavy with the scent of ash and old magic. Behind that wind came footsteps—not stomping, but slow, deliberate. Like a ritual. Like someone meant to be heard.

He entered like a curse.

The red dragon stood tall, nearly scraping the low beams overhead. His scales, a deep crimson hue that shimmered like lacquered blood, caught every flickering candlelight. But it wasn’t his size that silenced the room—it was what burned atop his skull.

A trail of fire, narrow and controlled, ran like a spine of molten light from the center of his forehead, tracing back along the crown of his head, over the top ridges of his skull, all the way to the base of his neck where it smoldered and ended in a soft curl of smoke.

In one hand, he carried a long staff—tall and straight, carved from obsidian wood, the top crowned with a grinning, silvered skull of some unknown beast. Its empty eye sockets shimmered with light that seemed to follow the room. The staff left scorch marks on the floor where it tapped.

The bartender’s one eye twitched.

“You again,” he muttered. “Fire-spine.”

The red dragon inclined his head, just a fraction, and replied in a low, silky voice that buzzed like coals stirred in an old hearth.

“Pour it black.”

“Rum or blood?”

“Mix them.”

He slid a coin across the bar—hexagonal, etched in runes, warm to the touch. The bartender, reluctantly, accepted it.

Behind him, the tavern’s crowd started whispering again.

“You hear about that rat?” said one of the orc mercs, watching the dragon out of the corner of his eye.

“Captain Chaincoat?” muttered another. “Slick freak’s still out there.”

“They say he’s got a rubber skin—squeaky tight—enchanted. Black as void. You touch it, and the suit takes you. Wraps you. Changes you.”

“I heard the last guy who went after him showed up in the Black Bastille.” The lizardman leaned in, whispering, “Sold as a drone. Dumb, mute, sealed. Still breathing, but his brain was nothing but goo. Poor bastard squeaks when he walks now.”

The dragon, unmoved, sipped from his mug.

One of the orcs barked a laugh. “I mean, who the hell goes into a fight wearing rubber and chains and a shiny bulge on full display? What, does he plan to seduce the whole damn battlefield?”

“Have you seen the new poster?” asked a goblin, gesturing to the wall. “They say he's got red armor strapped on top—real warrior plate, over the rubber. Chains across his belly, tail blades, and that cursed lock right over his junk.”

The bartender grunted, pouring another drink. “Cursed or not, he’s real. And dangerous. Wraps ‘em up like dolls. And then... sells ‘em.”

The red dragon stood.

His staff clinked against the floor. He turned to the bounty board on the wall, the fire crest along his skull casting an eerie, hot glow over the posters. The crowd watched him in silence.

His clawed hand reached out.

Ripped down a wanted sheet.

It showed Captain Chaincoat in full color: black rubber skin stretched tight over his frame, crimson armor with glowing sigils, chains wrapped around his core, and a chastity bulge shining with runes. A red helmet spiked along the back, a short sword holstered at his hip.

The dragon folded the poster once. Twice. Slid it into a pouch.

He turned.

Did not speak.

Did not smirk.

Just walked out.

His fire-streaked skull lit the doorway as he left, and the bar behind him filled with mutters.

“He’s not gonna make it.”

“Another magician turned slave.”

“I give him two days before he's drooling behind a visor.”