Chapter 18

Lucien’s Calculations

The days that followed in Vienna seemed ordinary to the outside world: a boy, his uncle, and a foreign businessman enjoying the grandeur of the city. They walked in the statues of Ringstrasse, drank strong coffee in hidden cafés, and visited museums where silent portraits of emperors stared down from a frames. But in this façade was a web of plots, a battle of wits that only the three men understood.

Lucien Devereux was the master of calculation. He had not risen to power in Brussels merely by force of brutality—though he wielded that as well. No, Lucien’s genius lay in his foresight, his ability to see the board two, three, sometimes four moves ahead. And here in Vienna, with Alexei at his side and Arjun Singh watching with his eyes, Lucien’s mind ticked like a well-oiled machine.

The uncle thought him blind. He believed Lucien was satisfied with the tale—that the Cham could only belong to Alexei, because of his age. But Lucien was not a fool. If the ring’s enchantment was real, then it mattered not who wore it; what mattered was who commanded the wearer. And Alexei belonged to him. He had saved him from the streets, trained him, shaped him, molded him into a weapon that obeyed.

Yes, Arjun might pretend to be the guardian, the old lion trying to shield his cub. But Lucien already knew: the boy’s heart was caught. Alexei could not leave him, not truly. Hunger binds as tightly as chains, and Lucien had been both provider and gaoler.

So when Arjun suggested they all visit the mystic—the so-called “keeper of the Cham”—Lucien agreed at once. He even feigned eagerness, nodding with that smooth charm of his. “Yes,” he said, “let us all see this man. Truth is better tasted together than whispered apart.”

Alexei, sitting between them, glanced from one to the other. His uncle’s request felt almost staged, and Lucien’s acceptance was too swift, too eager. But Alexei kept silent. He had learned long ago that in the world of men, silence was safer than words.

That night, as Alexei slept, Lucien sat by the window of their hotel suite, smoking. Vienna glittered in him, its streets alive with carriages of the rich and the hurried footsteps of the poor. He exhaled the smoke like a man savoring victory before it had even arrived.

He thought of the Cham.

If the ring was as Arjun described, then its potential was limitless. Imagine: Alexei, wearing it, stepping into the chambers of Brussels’ mayor, into the halls of the governor, into the lavish offices of CEOs who thought themselves untouchable. One look, one moment of eye contact, and the most powerful men in Europe would be undone.

Desire was the strongest chain, stronger than money, stronger than bullets. With Alexei as his living weapon, Lucien could bend politicians, blackmail businessmen, sway judges, seduce bankers into obedience. Not through threats that could be resisted—but through craving that could not be controlled.

He almost laughed aloud. The beauty of it struck him like wine. He would no longer need to bloody his hands with assassinations, nor waste fortunes bribing men who pretended to virtue. The Cham would do it all. And no one would suspect, for who would accuse a boy of possessing such devastating power?

The world would see Alexei as nothing but a beautiful youth in his shadow. And Lucien—oh, Lucien would be the unseen puppeteer.

Yes. Arjun had played his game well, trying to limit the ring to Alexei. But Lucien had already turned that rule to his advantage. Let the boy wear it, let him be the face of temptation, the vessel of the Cham. Lucien would reap the harvest.

In the adjoining room, Arjun lay awake as well. He was no fool; he sensed the way Lucien’s eyes glittered with greed when the Cham was mentioned. He had hoped that his tale—that only boys below eighteen could wear it—would chain Lucien’s ambition to Alexei’s youth. But Arjun also knew greed had many faces.

He murmured prayers in his breath, old mantras passed through Sikh warriors of his bloodline. “Waheguru, give me strength,” he whispered. “Guard the boy. Let not the wolf devour him.”

His plan now was twofold. First, to lead them both to Suresh Bhandari, the keeper of the Cham. Second, to guide the demonstration in such a way that Lucien’s hunger would be directed, contained. Perhaps if the man saw the power with his own eyes, he would at least respect its limits.

But Arjun feared something else—that Lucien would see not limits but opportunity.

The next morning. They traveled through Vienna in silence, Alexei pressing the car's seat, Lucien staring forward, Arjun deep in his own thoughts.

Finally, the taxi wound its way to the old quarter, where cobblestones echoed in their steps and the alleys grew dark with age. They stopped before a nondescript building—gray stone, faded shutters, a sign in German that seemed to offer nothing more than trinkets.

But inside, as before, was Suresh. He sat cross-legged on a wooden stool, his shop smelling of incense and dust. His eyes, dark and deep, flicked over each of them as they entered. He nodded once to Arjun, as if acknowledging the hidden conversation they had already shared.

“Welcome,” he said. “You seek the Cham.”

Lucien stepped forward first, his confidence radiating. “We seek truth. If this ring is what you claim, then I will see it with my own eyes. Show us.”

Suresh did not rise. His hands rested on his knees. “You must understand, monsieur, the Cham is not an ornament. It is not a jewel to flaunt. It is a burden, a fire. Only the young may carry it. To older men, it is poison.”

Lucien’s lips curved. “So I have heard. Then let the boy carry it. I am not here for trinkets, but for demonstration. Show us its fire.”

Alexei stiffened at the word boy. His chest tightened, his throat dry. He felt everyone’s eyes on him—his uncle’s watchful, Lucien’s claiming, the mystic’s unreadable. He nodded, though every nerve in him screamed that something was shifting beyond his control.

Suresh moved to the counter, withdrawing the wooden box bound in brass. He placed it before them, opened it, and once again the Cham gleamed—amber and red, pulsing as though alive. The air in the room thickened and charged, as though the stone itself drew breath.

“Take it,” Suresh said, his eyes fixed on Alexei.

The boy’s hand trembled as he reached forward. Lucien’s eyes followed like a hawk, narrowed with hunger. Arjun’s lips moved silently in prayer.

When Alexei slipped the ring onto his finger, the whole air seemed to tremble. He gasped. The stone warmed against his skin, not painfully, but with a strange throb that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The world around him shifted—the sound of Lucien’s breath, the loud sound of the street outside, even the beating of his own blood grew louder.

Lucien stepped forward. “Look at me, Alexei.”

And Alexei did.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, Lucien’s composure faltered. His eyes widened—just slightly, but enough. A shadow of hunger crossed his features, darker than desire, deeper than control. For the first time in years, Lucien Devereux felt something stronger than his own will clawing inside him.

He masked it quickly, straightening, but the damage was done. Arjun saw it. Suresh saw it. And Alexei—Alexei felt it.

Lucien was bound.

When they left the shop, Lucien was silent. His mind churned with revelations and schemes. Yes, the ring worked. Yes, its power was beyond doubt. Already he imagined the mayors, the governors, the judges—each one falling, one by one, under Alexei’s eyes. Already he saw the wealth, the leverage, the dominance it would bring him.

And best of all, he now felt the chain himself. His craving for Alexei had doubled, trebled. The boy was no longer merely his creation, his weapon. He was his hunger, his fire.

But Lucien did not fear this. No—he welcomed it. He would harness it, channel it, bend it to his will.

Arjun, however, walked beside them with grave silence. He had seen the flicker in Lucien’s eyes, the way the man had hidden his sudden craving. This was no lesson learned. This was not a man frightened into respect. No—Lucien had tasted the fire and desired more.

And Alexei? He walked between them, silent, his eyes downcast, his chest heavy. He felt the weight of the ring like a chain. He felt the eyes of his uncle warning him, the silence of his master burning him. And deep inside, he wondered:

Was he still Alexei Volkov, the boy who had once starved in Brussels? Or had he become nothing more than the vessel of a cursed jewel, caught between love and greed, between freedom and chains?

The journey of Vienna had only just begun.