Chapter 58
The small figure navigated the maze of enormous tables, chairs, and bustling waiters with a practiced ease that drew almost no attention.
His target was clear: a massive candelabra standing as decoration on one side of the grand hall.
The candelabra held several long, white candles, their wax slowly dripping down, creating a classical, almost gothic ambiance.
Jack scrambled onto a stool, stood on his tiptoes, and reached out a small hand. Without a flicker of hesitation, he plucked a brightly burning candle from its holder.
The flame danced in his hand, illuminating his eyes with a chilling glint. It was a coldness that didn't belong to a boy his age.
Clutching the candle like a toy, he slipped back toward the main table, just as silently as he had left.
The adults' attention was still locked on the standoff between Dave and Jacob. No one looked down.
Jack approached the high-backed chair where Dave sat.
Dave was clutching his bleeding arm, a mixture of shock and fury contorting his features. His entire focus was on Jacob, completely oblivious to the small presence at his feet.
Jack crouched down. His small hand was steady as he placed the burning candle on the floor, right next to the silk fabric of Dave's trousers that pooled around his ankles. The candle stood upright, its flickering flame just inches from the fine, flammable material.
His task complete, Jack quickly stood up and took a few steps back. His face was a blank canvas, devoid of any emotion, as he simply watched.
A waiter carrying a tray of drinks walked past, noticed Jack's empty hands, and then glanced at the lit candle on the floor. He frowned, assuming it was just a child's mischief—taking a candle to play with and forgetting to put it back. Since it was Jack and no major chaos had ensued, he decided to leave it and deal with it later.
The seconds ticked by.
The tension in the hall remained thick enough to cut with a knife. Dave, seeming to finally recover from the initial shock and humiliation, was about to say something to reclaim his lost face when he suddenly felt an unusual, searing heat on his calf.
He instinctively glanced down. "Fire! I'm on fire!!!"
A scream of terror, so shrill it warped in tone, suddenly shattered the silence of the banquet!
A cluster of orange flames was greedily climbing up his trouser leg from the ankle. The silk had caught instantly, and the fire was spreading with terrifying speed, licking at his pants. The acrid smell of burnt protein instantly filled the air.
Dave's soul practically fled his body.
He shot up from his seat with such force that he knocked over the table in front of him, sending wine glasses and plates crashing to the floor in a symphony of shattering porcelain and sloshing liquid.
In his panic, as he frantically slapped at the flames on his leg, he tripped over the very chair he had just overturned. He stumbled, his entire body lurching sideways—directly toward a bar cart laden with spirits and high-proof aperitifs.
"Look out!"
"Get back!"
Gasps and shouts erupted from all sides.
But it was too late.
Dave slammed into the cart. It tipped over, and its contents—a river of various liquors, including a freshly opened bottle of high-proof brandy—cascaded down, pouring with pinpoint accuracy onto the flames already consuming him.
Alcohol met fire.
The flames exploded.
What had been a small orange cluster erupted into a three-foot-tall inferno, a furious tongue of fire that instantly engulfed the lower half of his body and one of his arms.
In a horrifying instant, Dave became a screaming, flailing human torch.
His hair and eyebrows sizzled, catching fire with a sickening crackle and a foul stench.
Primal survival instinct took over. He thrashed wildly.
"Help me! Somebody, help! Put it out!!!" Dave's screams were gut-wrenching, the agony and the mortal terror of being burned alive stripping him of all reason. He began rolling on the floor like a man possessed, trying to smother the flames, but he only succeeded in spreading the fire to the plush carpet and the spilled alcohol, turning the scene into pure chaos.
Screams, gasps, and the crash of overturned chairs echoed through the hall.
The nearest guests scrambled backward, terrified of being caught in the blaze.
The waiters were frozen in panic, momentarily unsure how to react. This ancient castle wasn't exactly equipped with modern fire suppression systems.
Amid the pandemonium, Elizabeth's gaze locked onto one small figure: Jack.
He was standing not far from Dave, the light of the inferno dancing across his face. It illuminated his chillingly calm expression as he watched the man writhe and scream on the floor, as if observing a spectacle that had nothing to do with him.
A cold dread seized Elizabeth's heart.
This was too dangerous. A stray spark, or Dave's frantic rolling, could injure him at any moment.
Without a second thought, she shot to her feet and rushed forward. She swept Jack into her arms, holding him tight, and quickly retreated to a safe distance, shielding him with her own body from the potential danger and the horrific view.
Tucked in her embrace, Jack didn't struggle. He just buried his small face in the crook of her neck, his little hands gripping her dress tightly.
Just then, a few waiters who had finally snapped out of their shock came running with small, decorative fire extinguishers.
But the fire, fueled by both alcohol and silk, was stubborn. The dry chemical powder they sprayed seemed only to agitate the flames and make Dave howl in even greater agony.
In the midst of the chaos, a servant, who had been on his way to the kitchens with a half-full bucket of dirty water, was drawn by the commotion. He stood at the entrance to the hall, clutching his bucket, utterly bewildered.
Elizabeth's eyes caught sight of the water. Her expression hardened.
It was greasy, slop-filled water from cleaning up after the meal—disgusting, but at this moment, it was their best bet.
Still holding Jack, she strode over to the stunned servant. "I need that water," she said, her voice fast but clear.
Before he could react, she single-handedly snatched the bucket of murky, oil-slicked water from his grasp. Setting Jack down for a second, she turned, and without a shred of hesitation, heaved its contents at the still-wailing figure on the floor.
The icy, greasy deluge crashed down, drenching Dave from head to toe.
The remaining flames, shocked by the water, finally sputtered and died, leaving behind wisps of smoke and the pathetic sight of Dave—a charred, bloody, water-logged, and powder-covered mess.
The sudden, filthy downpour seemed to stun him into silence. He coughed, choked, and then collapsed onto the floor, capable of nothing more than pained moans and the ragged, desperate gasps of a man who had just stared death in the face. Gone was every last trace of the arrogant, abusive man from moments before.
The entire hall fell into a silence even more profound and eerie than when the knife had flown.
Only Jack, standing beside Elizabeth, quietly lifted his head. He glanced at the wretched heap on the floor, then up at Elizabeth's tightly pressed lips and cold, determined face. A flicker of something akin to satisfaction crossed his small features before he buried his face once more against her side.