It was no longer the moon that lit up Irene's path, but the orange fire eating up what wasn't made from stone on Samson's shop.
Her heart was in her throat at the thought that something could have happened to the man so beloved to her father. Not only was he a connection to her father's past, but someone who tried to ensure that he could remain a knight, or at least retain use of his hand through the care he put into something as precise as a prosthetic hand.
Beyond that, Samson was loud and happy. He was someone who deserved to live. She had heard of many mercenaries who went down dark pathways, but the man used his money for good. Not only did he help his family, but he also built himself an honest career where he actually helped the knights by making their weapons.
"Please, please," Irene begged over and over.
