Surrender. To some, it's a symbol of defeat; to others, a daring, strategic gamble. For Vilk, surrender was the undeniable choice. After the horde's ale house had been fortified with new defenses, the path ahead was clear. His bonds with the horde were severed, yet an immense debt still weighed heavily on him, one that wouldn't vanish no matter how gracefully he was cast aside.

He knew a sacrifice was inevitable: recompense or shame. Faced with this grim reality, Vilk made his decision. So, he surrendered.

For nearly a year and several off seasons, Vilk had seen the holding cells of District Seven's Office of Law. They were a grim testament to suffering. Cold, damp stone walls closed in, their chill seeping into the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be confined within. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and decay, mingling with the acrid scent of old blood. The floor, slick with moisture, was a breeding ground for insects that scuttled in the shadows, their tiny legs scratching against the stone. Faint light from candles and twitching electric lights cast eerie shadows that danced across the walls.

His cell had clearly seen many prisoners before, evidenced by the dark stains of dried blood and the occasional rat scurrying across the floor. The sound of distant, muffled cries echoed through the corridors, a constant reminder of loss. Vilk had seen it all before, but never from behind the bars. 

Never until that day. 

"As a friend, I'll give you the opportunity, again, to choose light over dark. Give me a name, a location, something to end my search," Jocelyn warned.

"What will you cut first? My ears? Fingers? Do you plan to take an eye?" The goblin spoke from a corner, his voice taunting. 

Swathed in the deep shadows of his cell, Vilk was all but invisible. Had his voice been silent, he might as well have vanished into thin air. Yet, his calm demeanor and apparent lack of fear baffled the human officer who fancied herself the wielder of ultimate power in that grim arena of blood and torment.

In that grim place, she had honed her confidence and sharpened her skills. Why wouldn't she feel at ease in her own domain of dominance? Yet, even there, Vilk's mastery of remaining unseen was unparalleled. Jocelyn's eyes strained in the gloom, barely discerning his shadowed form. She hesitated at the threshold, assuming the goblin would seize any chance to flee. She had witnessed his cunning before; capturing him had been a triumph of numbers, not strength. In that darkened cell, she faced the unsettling realization that the predator could swiftly become the prey if her attention or her nerve wavered. 

"Your sacrifice is almost admirable, but loyalty to dying cause is foolish," Jocelyn snickered. 

The goblin nearly had her, but just as her thoughts began to turn against her, self-awareness drew Jocelyn to look at the picture again. Whether Vilk was a threat or not, he was behind bars while she was not. Arrogance may have bloomed in her chest until the green shadow questioned her, asking, "You think I'm sacrificing myself?" 

He chuckled before adding, "Maybe I am. I've done everything I could to avoid this, but you've made your stance clear. So open the door."

The demand in his voice brought clarity to Jocelyn's thoughts. He had no intention of running. 

"You can't be serious?"

"Open the door," Vilk repeated. 

"You won't harm me. It would be suicide."

He corrected her, saying, "A sacrifice."

The silence that followed offered only intimidation the officer had to swallow from afar with only the faint glare of Vilk's silver eyes hinting at his position. 

"The horde has a code, Jocelyn. Steal, theieve, take because this city's people would have us do nothing else. But we don't kill. Had we been without laws, this moment would have come sooner. But I am now only myself, and I will do for the horde what I should have done in the beginning." 

"You will never leave."

"Then you will never have the horde."

"Your sacrifice is a stalemate?"

"If you make it so."

Jocelyn paced, taking steps both in her mind and the corridor before finally turning her back to the goblin’s cell. 

"Have you ever heard a Confessor's Call?"

She took from her pocket and unassuming thing that could have been mistaken for a child's toy. Thin as a paint brush, short as a thumb, the unassuming instrument was crafted from enchanted silver. Its surface was etched with intricate runes that shimmerd faintly in the dim light. When blown, the whistle would emit a piercing, high-pitched sound that cut through the air like a blade. However, only its target would hear it. 

The sound was not only painful to the ears; it seemed to penetrate the very mind of its target. It would create an unbearable pressure, as if invisible hands were squeezing their thoughts, forcing them to the surface. The sensation was akin to a relentless mental assault, making it impossible to hold back secrets.

Jocelyn blew into the instrument. Though she remained facing away from Vilk, the sound hit him with great force, forcing him to stumble out of his shade. As the sound reverberated through the cell, he felt his defenses crumble. The whistle's magic compelled him to speak, " No, I've never heard the call." 

The green skin fell to a knee as Jocelyn turned to tell him, "You have now." 

Her tool was nearly flawless, yet it bore two crucial weaknesses. Under the influence of the Confessor's Call, her target was compelled to speak a truth, any truth. Although answering her question would grant the most relief, Vilk could evade by revealing unasked truths. But one's mind, under siege, can only dredge up so many truths before faltering. 

This cruel paradox was worsened by the unrelenting nature of the instrument—it could be wielded without pause. But the Confessor's Call, forged from enchanted metal, had its own limit: with each use, it grew hotter, transforming into a searing brand. Already, after just a single blow, Jocelyn's fingers tingled with heat, her lips flushed from the growing warmth.

The officer may well have underestimated Vilk, but in a similar fashion, he had taken their relationship at face value and miscalculated Jocelyn. 

In the hours that followed, Vilk was tested, forced to endure the Confessor's Call without rest. The officer had but a single question for him to answer, but the goblin’s will was strong. With bleeding ears, he confessed many things, but never the location of the hord. Vilk's resistance, his dance with half-truths and evasions, became a game of endurance against the increasing blaze. Jocelyn stood at the edge of her power, wielding a tool that burned brighter with every fleeting breath of truth that escaped his lips. The air crackled with tension, the room simmered with the promise of revelation—or ruin. 

Only one could win, but neither had weakness enough to lose.

Vilk gave the name of his blacksmith, the address of his home, even the truth of how he stole Caine Barlow’s treasure. None of it mattered to the officer with her blistered flesh. Nothing mattered until Vilk spoke a name that she knew. 

He had tried and done so well to shield Larimer’s identity. In the end, he vomited another, and it would certainly come at a cost.

"Kurt Halex."

It fell from his lips, and when the Confessor's Call ceased its ringing, Vilk knew he had lost. In his misguided attempt to repay past disloyalty, he had perhaps condemned another friend to suffer.