The soil of the orchard felt soft beneath every step, but there was a sticky drag to it that made Corleone's skin crawl. When he lifted his foot, a wet, sucking sound followed.
He couldn't tell whether the smear on his boots was damp earth or blood that had cooled, congealed, and seeped into the soil hours ago.
The apple trees around him were heavy with bodies. The workers who had once labored beside him under Ser Finn's orchard now hung from branches like grotesque, overripe fruit. Their silhouettes rocked gently in the night breeze.
Corleone didn't dare look around. He kept his gaze straight ahead, wearing the expression of a man who felt nothing at all. A stranger walking through someone else's nightmare.
Healing Vargo Hoat hadn't raised his status. He remained a disposable captive with temporary usefulness. Once Vargo sobered up, he might very well decide to hang Corleone from one of these same branches.
Freedom?
It didn't exist here.
One of the Brave Companions escorted him toward the treeline and stopped.
"Go on in, doctor."
It was Rorge, the noseless brute. Hunchbacked, hulking, and covered in coarse black hair, he looked even more savage than the rest.
But strangely enough, he was the most polite of the lot.
Corleone had rehearsed his request countless times, preparing for resistance. Instead, Rorge agreed instantly, saving him an exhausting round of persuasion.
"Thank you for bringing me here, ser."
Corleone bowed his head politely.
"No need for thanks."
Rorge grinned, placing a hairy hand on his shoulder.
"I never refuse a doctor's request. No one knows when they'll need patching up, right?"
He jerked his chin toward the trees ahead.
"Urswyck's in there. But I'd wait until he's done. He doesn't like being interrupted when he's having fun."
The monstrous grin softened into something almost kind.
"I'll remember your kindness, Ser Rorge."
Corleone smiled back, nodded, and stepped toward the darkness alone.
He moved lightly, weaving between trunks until the forest suddenly opened into a small clearing.
In the center, tied to a thick tree trunk, was a pale mound of flesh.
Corleone recognized him instantly.
Derek. Ser Finn's heir.
The landlord's idiot son, he thought.
Urswyck was fully absorbed in his "game." Derek's shirt had been stripped away, and the fat boy hung there like a hog ready for slaughter.
Urswyck wasn't using a blade. He was tormenting the boy with a sharpened stick, stabbing slowly, letting blood and fat bubble together as they oozed from the wounds. Derek's choked screams filled the clearing, and Urswyck looked almost blissful.
"As a doctor, Lord Urswyck, allow me to offer some professional advice."
Ignoring Rorge's warning, Corleone stepped closer and spoke boldly.
"Your method is too inefficient. He'll pass out from blood loss or pain far too soon. Then the game ends before it gets interesting."
Urswyck froze mid-stab.
Never—never—had anyone critiqued his torture like a trained expert.
"…What did you say?"
He turned sharply, brows furrowed, staring at Corleone as if he didn't trust his ears.
Corleone shrugged and gestured toward Derek's wounds.
"Shallow cuts hurt, but the bleeding dulls pain quickly and causes early shock."
"Damaging highly innervated areas like fingertips or underarms creates sharp pain, but it doesn't last."
He took a step closer, voice low and steady, as if teaching a lecture.
"If you want deeper, longer-lasting feedback…"
"I recommend piercing muscle groups that don't carry weight, such as the front of the thigh or the upper arm. Go half a finger to one finger deep."
"Avoid major arteries like the femoral and brachial. You'll get sustained burning pain and functional impairment without killing him too early."
Urswyck stared, wide-eyed.
The calm, clinical detail.
The precision.
The cold logic.
Even a seasoned torturer like himself felt a chill.
Then excitement.
This wasn't a frightened captive begging for his life.
This was a man speaking his language.
"Seven hells… doctor, you're a monster."
He pulled the stick back and stared at Corleone with a strange mix of shock, admiration, and fascination.
"I like it. Keep talking!"
"Give me a knife."
Corleone extended a hand, perfectly composed.
Urswyck raised an eyebrow, then grinned and handed over a small dagger.
Corleone stepped up to Derek, who stared at him with terror and hatred.
"I don't hate you, young master Derek."
His voice was disturbingly gentle.
"You liked to whip us with the steward. You liked crushing laborers under your three-hundred-pound body, riding us like horses."
"You killed two people. Crippled three more."
Derek's eyes flickered—fear, confusion, guilt, all tangled.
Corleone shook his head, almost disappointed.
"You don't even remember."
"But that doesn't matter. I don't hate you."
"What I'm about to do isn't revenge. It's business."
"And in every business, someone pays the price."
"For this one, that someone is you."
The blade slid into Derek's thigh.
A clean puncture. A twist. A smooth withdrawal.
Blood welled up, but the artery remained untouched.
Derek screamed, thrashing violently, but consciousness stayed sharp. The agony was sharp, constant, unrelenting.
"See?"
Corleone turned the blood-coated knife and handed it back.
"This way he'll suffer for a long time without dying."
It wasn't boasting. It was a demonstration.
A lesson.
Urswyck stared in awe.
The wound already oozed pain like a furnace, yet the boy clung to consciousness. The result was undeniable.
Professional.
Terrifyingly professional.
"Teach me!"
Urswyck licked his lips, eyes glowing with hunger—for knowledge and cruelty.
"Doctor, I want to learn!"
Corleone's smile spread slowly.
Step one: make him feel understood.
Completed.
"You may call me Vito Corleone, Lord Urswyck."
"And yes. I'll teach you everything."
He placed the dagger back in Urswyck's hand, then continued speaking with smooth, irresistible calm.
"But torturing a useless fat boy? That's child's play."
"Why not apply this precision, this control…"
"…toward something far greater?"
"Like deciding who truly deserves to sit in the seat of the Earl of Harrenhal."
Urswyck's breath caught.
The first hook had sunk deep.