Back to form, Roland stood by the door, and although it was closed, it was the cell door that would serve as Charles Brennick's prison for the remainder of his days. Having lost Falkenrath, having lost the duchy, lost his army, starved his people, and the shame of it was evident in the shadows underneath his eyes. Charles did his best to remain upright and back straight, standing at attention even as the Grand Master Mordecai approached.
"I have. Sir Roland is a gentleman, even if he is a usurper," he replied steadily. Eyes flicked over her, the haggard look in her eyes, the way her hair seemed disheveled, and he took could see the war in her visage. No doubt she saw the state of Falkenrath as she made her way through here. "Have you come here to deliver my execution? There is no need. I have no ill will toward the Grand Duke, and failure itself is punishment enough."
"Lord Brennick, we didn't come here to mock you."
"No? Your pretentious vindication is mockery enough. You should have done better than to let me live, Roland. An act of mercy, you called it. Yet I remain here to stew in my defeat, agonized that I could do better for my people, than a knight and his ramshackle army."
Roland grit his teeth together and stepped forward. "Charles!"
"Don't call me Charles. Don't you deign to defer to me by my given name," he hissed and moved toward the desk, pulling out a piece of wood that had been sharpened against stone. It was no blade, but the point was apparent enough. And he bared the point of it against his breast, underneath the ridge of his ribs. The stake itself was approximately 13 inches in length.
"CHARLES! THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!
"I am the Duke of Falkenrath. And my honor will be restored," he sobbed, closing his eyes and clipping the tears that rolled down his cheek. Brennick hesitated no longer and instead pressed the stake deep into the soft skin of his belly, pushing upward at an angle and making no sound as he buried every inch of the spike inside of his torso.