Chapter 17

The Uncle’s Plotting

The next morning, Arjun Singh sat on his room of the modest Viennese guesthouse, his hands folded like an old sage in meditation. Yet his mind was far from peaceful. He stared out at the sweep of the Danube in the early dawn, the mists rising above the water like veils of secrets. His face, aged by wisdom and grief, betrayed little to those who might look upon him. But within him, the fire burning.

The evening before, he had read his nephew like an open book. Alexei—so young, so beautiful, so lost in the storms of this world—had spoken in chosen words, describing Lucien Devereux as if the man were some benefactor, some savior of the streets of Brussels. But Arjun saw what was not spoken: the tremor in Alexei’s voice, the way his eyes kept darting towards Lucien for silent approval, the forced smile that never touched his soul.

Lucien, for all his composure, had sat like a king disguised in a businessman’s coat. But for Arjun, he recognized the foil in it—the glint of ownership, of pride, and of greed. He had dealt with men like this before. Princes of crime, lords of politics, even spiritual leaders who cloaked their hunger for dominion in words of destiny.

Yes, Arjun had recognized Lucien immediately: not a protector, but a wolf who convinced the lamb that its cage was safety.

And so, while Alexei lay restless in the adjoining room, tossing between dreams and fears, Arjun had remained awake, sharpening his mind. He had already decided his next move: to visit the keeper of the Cham—alone first.

The Cham was not a toy. Not merely a jewel that bound lovers together. It was old, older than the bloodstains of Europe or the feuds of Indian kingdoms. It came from a line of mystics who understood that love, in the hands of men of power, becomes the sharpest dagger. Love is pure only when it is given freely. When it is mixed with greed, it becomes poison.

Arjun remembered the night his own elder brother—Alexei’s father—was slain in the Chechen conflict. A massacre of civilians, swallowed by the war. Alexei had barely survived, smuggled across the borders like contraband, only to end in the hands of a wolves like Lucien, in Brussels. Arjun had searched for years, following whispers, until fate brought the boy back to him.

He would not lose him again. Not to war, not to politics, and certainly not to a man like Lucien Devereux.

Arjun rose up, the stiffness of his age in his joints, and prepared himself with ritual. He bathed, tied his turban with care, and set out through the noisy streets of Vienna. The morning markets had just begun, vendors pulling open shutters, the smell of bread and coffee filling the everywhere. He walked with the patience of one who knows his destination but carries no rush; for a hunter must never let his prey suspect it pursuit.

His destination lay beyond the tourist paths, in an old quarter where the alleys grew and the walls leaned over like conspirators. There, hidden in the back of a crumbling stone building, was the one man who still carried the Cham’s legacy: a jeweler, a mystic, a keeper of secrets that governments feared and kings once envied.

They called him Suresh Bhandari.

The old man received Arjun in silence, as if he had been expecting him. His shop smelled of sandalwood, its counters lined with trinkets no richer than what a street vendor might sell—but in the humble appearance was the sound of something deeper.

“You came?" Suresh asked, his voice was yet cutting. “The boy has returned, I feel his presence. And with him, the shadow.”

Arjun bowed. “You see clearly, old friend. The shadow has a name—Lucien Devereux. A man who believes the boy belongs to him. A man who believes all things belong to him.”

Suresh nodded with a smile. “Then it is time to remind him: not all things are his. The Cham was never forged for men like him. It was crafted for innocence—for the youth who stands between two worlds, still untainted enough to bear the burden of its fire. The boy fits this path. Lucien does not.”

Arjun stepped closer. “But we must make him believe. If he suspects otherwise, he will grasp harder. He will twist Alexei’s life until there is no freedom left. I must weave a tale—one that convinces Lucien that the Cham is indeed Alexei’s alone. That it cannot be wielded by an older hand. Only by one not yet twenty.”

“And what will you do once Lucien believes?”

Arjun’s eyes hardened. “Once he believes, I will buy us time. Time for Alexei to see for himself who Lucien truly is. Time for the bond to weaken, and for the boy to choose his own path—free, not forced.”

The old mystic reached inside his counter, drawing forth a wooden box, bound in brass. He laid it on the table between them and opened it. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was the ring itself.

The Cham.

It shimmered even in the light, as if the stone inside breathed with its own pulse. It was not large—no gaudy jewel to boast of wealth—but its presence filled the room like a tide. The gem was a deep amber, yet at certain angles it glowed red, then gold, as if the colors of the sun had been trapped in its heart.

Suresh’s fingers hovered over it, reverent. “This ring does not lie, Arjun. Whoever wears it will know the truth. It binds not only the eyes but the soul. Are you certain the boy is ready?”

Arjun’s heart beat again. He thought of Alexei’s fragile smile, his eyes haunted by both beauty and sorrow. He thought of the way the boy reached unconsciously for Lucien, as though clinging to the only raft he had known in a stormy sea.

“He is not ready,” Arjun whispered. “But neither is the world ready for him. We cannot wait for readiness. We must prepare him by necessity.”

Suresh sighed. “Then tell your tale. Let Lucien believe what you wish him to believe. But beware, Arjun. Deceit, even for love, weaves its own curses.”

Arjun accepted the warning, bowed once more, and left the shop with the image of the Cham burning in his mind.

That evening, when he returned to the guesthouse, Lucien was already there, waiting like a lord in his chamber. Alexei sat beside him, his posture caught between pride and fear.

Lucien’s smart eyes moved immediately to Arjun. “You were gone long, Singh. Where does an old man wander in this city so early?”

Arjun smiled, seating himself between them. “I went to seek an old acquaintance. A man who knows the truth of the Cham. For if we are to walk this road, we must not walk it blind.”

Lucien moved forward. His voice was silk but his eyes were steel. “And what truth did this acquaintance share?” He asked.

Arjun sighed in, watching and measuring him, before he answered. Then he said with authority:

“The truth is this—The Cham is not for every man. It is not for the old, whose desires are already corrupted by power. It is not for those past their youth, whose hearts are hardened. The Cham binds only to the bearer who has not yet crossed into full manhood. A boy still under eighteen. A boy who carries innocence.”

Lucien’s lips tightened, though his face still remained calm. “Convenient,” he murmured. His looked at Alexei—lingering, assessing and claiming. “So it is for him, then. And only him.”

“Yes,” Arjun answered. “The ring was made for him. For Alexei Volkov. No other can wear it without corruption. Even if you or I touched it, it would reject us—or worse, it would consume us. This is its law, sealed in the fire where it was born.”

Lucien’s silence stretched deep. Then, a smile curved his lips. “So be it. Then the boy shall wear it. And I shall guide him.”

Alexei shifted. His fingers twisted in his lap, as though he were both terrified and flattered. He glanced at his uncle, then at Lucien, caught in the snare between blood and bond.

Arjun hid his satisfaction behind a calm eyes. He had planted the seed. Lucien believed the Cham was Alexei’s destiny. That belief would cage Lucien as surely as Lucien tried to cage Alexei.

But as Arjun watched the triumph in Lucien’s eyes, he knew this was only the beginning. For greed does not surrender simply because it is told “no.” Greed finds another path, another hunger.

And Lucien Devereux was nothing if not a man of hunger.

The night stretched long after that conversation. Alexei fell asleep restless, his dreams stirred by unseen tides. Lucien sat awake all night, watching Vienna’s city lights, plotting his next move. And Arjun, lying on his cot, whispered a prayer to the gods of his ancestors.

“Protect him, protect the boy. Protect him even from himself.”

But deep inside, Arjun already sensed what the mystic had warned: deceit weaves its own curses.

And the curse had already begun.