Ember Ashwright gripped his hammer through two layers of bandage and still felt the heat bloom. By noon the cloth over his palms always charred black. He changed the wrappings every morning, prayed each time they would hold, and each day he watched them smoke. His bare hands set wood on fire. They could never shake another man's hand without burning it. That was the one thing he wanted, and the one thing his curse forbade. A villager stood in the doorway of Anvil Hall, turning his hat in his fists. He was Ember's only steady customer. The rest of the town bought their blades from the old champion down the street. "I need a sword," the man said. "Not forged in your fire. Shaped by hand. My brother swears a hand-worked edge holds truer. I'll pay double." Ember's stomach dropped. A hand-worked blade meant gripping hot steel with bare fingers, folding it, drawing the shape out by touch. He could not do that without setting the whole shop alight. But if he refused, the man would walk to the champion's forge and never return. "Give me till morning," Ember said. The man left. Ember sat alone with the coals. He pulled a worn journal from the loft shelf. Fire had darkened its leather and singed its edges years ago. Inside were his father's notes on the curse, the only guidance he owned. He read until the lamp burned low, searching for any trick to hold heat in check. One page stopped him. His father wrote of gripping iron slowly, breath by breath, letting the fire answer instead of burst. Ember had never tried it on purpose. He had only ever fought the heat. At dawn he unwound his bandages and left his palms bare. He laid a cold bar of steel on the anvil. Then he set one finger against it. The fire came. He did not pull away. He breathed, slow, the way the journal said, and pressed his whole hand down. Flame crawled up his wrist. The steel glowed under his grip. He felt it soften, felt the shape give where he pushed. For ten breaths he worked the metal by hand, folding and drawing it, and the fire stayed in his skin instead of leaping to the walls. Then the pain spiked. He jerked back. The bar dropped, half-shaped, and a blister split across his palm. But the steel held a true edge. He had forged it by hand. When the villager returned, Ember wrapped the blade and passed it over. The man grinned and paid double. Ember flexed his burned hand. He had controlled the fire, if only for ten breaths. He had never done that before. Word of a hand-worked blade would spread. More men would come asking. And the old champion down the street, the one the whole town trusted, would hear his name at last.