The tallow-fueled clarity was already fading, but Alex knew he had to act before the inevitable fog of starvation returned. Theron was preparing to leave for the tannery, meticulously wrapping a stack of coarse, salted hides. The big man was frowning, anticipating the hours of tedious, fine-detail work required for the smaller, more profitable leather goods—pouches, belts, and straps—which demanded patience his rough hands and temper lacked.
Alex moved toward him, deliberately avoiding the slump and pallor of the "sickly boy." He stood straight, drawing on the memory of professional confidence that had once carried him through demanding boardrooms.
"The small hides," Alex rasped, his voice still low and flat, but carrying an unnerving, unnatural precision. "They take you too long. You lose time on the vats."
Theron froze, his hands tightening around the rope binding the hides. He slowly turned, his brow furrowed in suspicion. Elian never volunteered conversation, much less competence.
"What rot are you spewing now, Shadow?" Theron scoffed, reaching instinctively for the small leather switch he used for discipline.
Alex did not flinch, treating the threat as an irrelevant variable. "You rush the corners on the saddle-bag leather. You leave too much stiffness in the pouch flaps. They split, and the customer demands a discount. It costs you profit."
The words weren't accusatory; they were a simple, undeniable statement of fact. Theron's leather was decent, but his small-scale finishing work was often flawed, a known annoyance that cost him coin.
Theron stared at him, caught between habitual fury and reluctant recognition. The change in Elian's tone—the detached, adult assessment—was more alarming than any defiance.
"You think you can do better, you pale waste?" Theron growled, suspicion overriding anger.
"I am still here," Alex stated, leveraging the boy's rumored fragility as a negotiation tool. "I am precise. I can cure the smallest, most difficult pieces. I can handle the needle and the finishing wax. You save three hours of tedious work and lose no margins."
Alex pointed a skeletal finger at the stack of hides. "I take over all finishing work on pieces smaller than a bread basket. I eliminate defects. Your income increases."
Theron's eyes narrowed, running the mental ledger. The idea was infuriating, yet logical. It bought him time at the vats, and the work Elian was volunteering for was indeed the most frustrating part of the trade.
"And what is your price, you insolent wretch?" Theron demanded.
"Consistency," Alex said, driving the bargain home. "The labor requires sustained focus. I need the strength to maintain the quality you require. I demand an extra portion of dried beans and a small piece of hard, salted fat, every day, at supper."
He watched Theron calculate the cost of the extra calories versus the time saved and the improved product quality. Greed won.
"Fine," Theron spat, shoving the small stack of hides toward him. "You get the scraps of hard tack and a piece of rendered tallow, not beans. If I find a single wrinkle in that leather, or a split seam, I'll take the belt to your hide until your spine is showing through the skin. Don't touch the vats. Stay in the yard. Understand?"
Alex nodded once. "Understood."
The deal was struck. It wasn't luxurious, but the inclusion of tallow was a victory. It was high-energy fuel for his brain, not just his muscles. Alex now had a sustainable, though minimal, supply line, bought not through compassion, but through the cold, hard logic of utility.
With his stomach's most immediate need addressed, his mind turned to the second part of his plan: finding privacy to condition his body and test the volatile black rabbit corpus.
Alex has successfully secured his vital supply line. The next logical step is to begin his physical and magical training in preparation for the escape.