Chapter 12

Lucien had lived his life by one rule: knowledge before strike. He never wasted a bullet or a blade without first dissecting the mind of his prey. And though Alexei was not prey in the ordinary sense, Lucien knew—something had shifted.

The boy was different. Not reckless, but distracted. A distraction born of whispers.

Lucien had first assumed it was a woman. That would have been simple, almost forgivable. But no. The pattern of Alexei’s calls, the changes in his voice, told another story. There was reverence there. Curiosity or hunger.

And then came the word that pricked Lucien’s ears like a dagger in the dark.

Charm.

The boy had muttered it once in his sleep, another time when he thought he was alone in the training hall. A charm that could make men yield. A charm that could bend secrets from the mouths of liars.

Lucien had heard enough in his life to know that myths often carried teeth. Relics, talismans, artifacts—things that politicians laughed at publicly but feared privately. If such a thing existed, Lucien could use it. Not just in the alleys and dens of Brussels, but in Parliament halls, in oil chambers, in banks where fortunes slept like dragons.

Yes. The Cham, as Alexei called it, might not just be myth. It might be the missing weapon in Lucien’s empire.

And so, Lucien began to plot.

The plan was simple on paper: listen before questioning.

Confrontation would make Alexei defensive. A cornered boy bites. But if Lucien could capture the conversations uprightly, Alexei himself would lay the truth bare. And once Lucien knew all, he could decide whether to cut the uncle from the equation—or to use him.

He summoned Henri one evening, keeping his voice steady.

“Plant a receiver in the boy’s quarters,” Lucien instructed, tapping ash into his tray. “Hidden and invisible. I want every whisper, every breath. He is speaking of something beyond him, and I will have it.”

Henri bowed, nervous. “You suspect betrayal?”

Lucien smiled. “Not betrayal, but temptation. And temptation is a more dangerous thing.”

The device was placed that same night. A pin-sized transmitter under the mattress frame, wired to capture even the smallest vibration of sound.

And when Alexei whispered to his uncle again, Lucien listened.

The first recordings were fragmented, but they carried enough to make Lucien’s heart quicken.

“…the Cham… it bends men, Uncle. Makes them hand everything over, willingly…”

“Be careful, Alexei. It chooses its bearer. But if you wield it, you could free yourself…”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, eyes moving. A ring? A relic? He poured himself whiskey, listening with the focus of a predator savoring prey steps away.

This was not mere fantasy. The uncle spoke as though he had seen it. As though it existed.

And Alexei… the boy was nearly trembling with hunger for it.

Lucien licked his lips. A relic that could tempt men into surrender. That could unmake defenses. That could turn generals into servants and rivals into benefactors.

“Yes,” he murmured to the silence. “That is what I need.”

For days, Lucien allowed the charade to continue. He pretended ignorance when Alexei reported to him. He gave missions, collected reports, sat in front him at dinners without betraying the fact that he now knew almost every word spoken into that secret phone.

And with each recording, the picture glaring.

The uncle, Arjun, spoke of Vienna. Of a collector, of a ring worn by a man too blind to see its worth. Of how the Cham would not just be ornament, but a weapon.

Alexei, in turn, grew bolder. His questions dug deeper: Could it enslave Lucien? Could it protect him from Lucien? Could it be stolen, claimed or mastered?

Lucien felt a spark of cold amusement. The boy thought of freedom. He thought of slipping the leash.

But Lucien had no intention of cutting the chain. No—he would tighten it. And perhaps, one day, Alexei himself would bring him the Cham like a dog fetching its master’s prize.

Yet Lucien was careful. Greed was a fire that could blind even him. He knew better than to leap without first measuring the ground.

One evening, he ordered Alexei a glass of wine, he asked him to sit with him, as though speaking of trivial things.

“You believe in myths, boy?”

Alexei’s hand froze on the glass. “Myths?”

“Relics. Talismans. Things that men whisper about when the lights are low.”

Alexei forced a shrug. “Stories. Nothing more, just stories.”

Lucien smiled. He could hear the lie in the boy’s voice as easily as hearing a knife scrape metal. “Stories,” he repeated, moving closer. “And yet stories build empires, Alexei. Never forget that.”

He let the silence linger, let the boy sweat under his wet face. Then he moved back, as though the matter was already forgotten.

But in Lucien’s mind, the decision was already made.

He would let Alexei lead him to the Cham. He would drain every word from those secret calls until the full path revealed itself. And then, when the time was right, he would step in—not as thief, but as kingmaker.

Days later, Lucien became obsessed.

He spent hours replaying the recordings, analyzing Arjun’s tone, his cadence, the certainty in his voice. This was no drunken uncle spinning fantasies. This was a man who knew what he's talking about.

One phrase in particular stuck to Lucien like fire.

“The Cham does not break locks, Alexei. It breaks men. It whispers into their souls. They give, not because they must, but because they cannot not give.”

Lucien’s hands moved around his glass. He imagined Belgian ministers, fat with bribes, handing over accounts. Bankers revealing vault codes. Rivals spilling blackmail secrets in exchange for nothing at all.

Power that required no war, only a ring.

He could almost taste it.

But obsession was not without danger.

Lucien noticed Alexei growing restless, as though aware he was being watched. The boy grew quieter. His eyes often flicked to the corners of rooms, his steps more guarded.

One night, Lucien wondered if the boy suspected the bug. If so, timing was now delicate.

He called Henri into his study.

“We are close,” Lucien murmured, tapping ash into the tray. “Too close to lose it. Prepare a trip to Vienna. Discreet. No papers that trace back to me. The boy’s uncle will reveal the final thread soon, and when he does—I will be there first.”

Henri hesitated. “And the boy?”

Lucien’s mouth smiled. “The boy leads me to the well. But only I drink.”

That night, the recording caught something new.

Arjun: “Alexei, you must be careful. The man in Vienna—he is guarded. Others will sense the Cham’s power. You cannot let anyone follow you.”

Alexei: “I understand. I will come alone. No one must know.”

Lucien chuckled in the dark as he listened. Too late, boy.

Already, Lucien was one step ahead.

Still, he needed caution. He could not yet confront Alexei—not until he had the ring in his hand. If he revealed his knowledge now, the boy might vanish, or worse, alert his uncle. No, patience was key.

So Lucien crafted his mask. He praised Alexei’s efficiency on missions, rewarded him with silence rather than suspicion, even gave him rare nights of freedom. It was the carrot before the leash.

But within, Lucien burned.

Burned for the ring. Burned for the Cham.

Every night, as he drifted into the dark silence of his mansion, he pictured it on his finger—gleaming, alive, irresistible. And in his dreams, men knelt. Politicians opened safes. Even the kings begged.

And all of Belgium, all of Europe, bent to Lucien.

But dreams had shadows, and even Lucien could not control them.

For the first time, doubt gnawed at him. What if the Cham was more than power? What if it consumed the bearer, as Arjun’s warnings hinted?

Lucien dismissed the thought with a scoff. Power always consumed. The difference lay in who remained standing when the fire died. And Lucien had never bowed to any flame.

Still… the whisper of risk lingered.

The next morning, Lucien made his final decision.

“Henri,” he called, “tighten the leash on the boy. Let him think he is free, but never out of sight. If he so much as steps towards Vienna without me knowing, kill his uncle. I will not lose the Cham to a boy’s bloodline.”

Henri bowed, though unease flickered in his eyes.

Lucien smiled. “We stand at the edge of an empire, Henri. And empires are not built by mercy.”

In his room, Alexei stared at the phone, his heart thundering. His uncle’s final instructions sat before him, coded but clear. Vienna awaited.

But in the silence of the walls, something felt wrong. He could not shake the sense of breath behind him, ears in the shadows.

He whispered to himself, almost trembling:

“Uncle… if this Cham is truly mine, may it shield me from him.”

He meant Lucien.

What Alexei did not know was that Lucien was already listening. And smiling.

For now, the hunter and the hunted sat in the same house, bound by a ring neither yet possessed, but already owned by its legend.

And Vienna would decide which of them it would crown… and which it would destroy.