They said the Dragoncoil was a trick of the old tamers — a chain spun not by smiths, but by the dragon itself, twisting molten silver round and round until it cooled into perfect, unbroken links.
The tamer who bore it was no knight in shining armour, but a quiet figure in worn leather, speaking softly to scales the size of shields. The coil was their pact: a gift from the beast in exchange for freedom, each link a promise never to bind, only to return.
It is said that when the tamer passed, the dragon circled the mountain three times before vanishing into cloud — and the chain was all that remained, still warm to the touch, waiting for the next hand brave enough to wear it
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