After quickly checking on Raum who was flying above the Keep, scouting and absorbing the negative energy.

Aron picked up the food plate and made his way to the dungeon followed by Keeper Eldarion, while Lieutenant Eamon and a few soldiers—on Aron's command—went to search the prisoners' belongings.

A heavy oak door, reinforced with iron bars, marked the threshold. A single, flickering torch cast grotesque shadows that danced across the rough-hewn stone walls. The air hung thick with the stench of mildew and something far more disturbing – a metallic tang that hinted at blood and neglect.

Keeper Eldarion, his wizened face etched with concern, stood beside Aron. "The dungeons haven't been used in decades, Lord Commander. Tread carefully."

Aron grunted in acknowledgment. The weight of the oak door creaked under his touch, revealing a gaping maw that swallowed the meager light from the single torch. Stepping through, he was met with an oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to him like a shroud.

Eldarion produced a small, glowing orb from his sleeve, casting a pale, ethereal light that illuminated the immediate surroundings. The damp stone floor stretched out before them, slick with grime and moisture. A series of narrow cells, each barred by rusted iron grates.

Aron approached the cell where the prisoners were being held, his crimson eyes piercing through the darkness with an intensity that sent shivers down their spines. The cooks, trembling in fear, looked up as Aron entered, their expression a mixture of terror and desperation.

"Please, Lord Commander, have mercy," the head-cook pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper as he cowered in the corner of the cell. But Aron remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he studied their faces; he noticed the existence of slave collars around their necks.

While there was a special prison cell that could hold anyone with mana, by creating a force shield of energy that could disrupt the mana veins, such cells were expensive to make and also extremely dangerous.

To disrupt the mana veins, the energy shield must keep changing its flow to prevent the prisoner from adapting to it. The drawback was that it could lead to the shield being unstable, and if the prisoner possessed a massive mana pool or a skill that allowed him to release his mana outside his body, there would be a higher chance that the cell would explode.

That led many to use the slave collars to seal their magic instead. They are safer and easy to make.

"Please, Lord Commander," the head-cook pleaded again, "It was just a misunderstanding. I wasn't trying to poison you."

"Of course," Aron replied, a slow smirk spreading across his face. The tension in the cell was thick enough to cut with a knife. The head cook's eyes flickered with hope for a fleeting moment before he saw the glint of suspicion in Aron's crimson gaze.

"You weren't trying to poison me," Aron continued, his voice low and dangerous, "you were trying to plant a parasite inside me like you did to everyone here."

"!!!" The realization dawned on the cooks' faces like a horrifying sunrise. Their blood drained, leaving them a sickly shade of pale. The metallic tang in the air suddenly made a horrifying kind of sense. A strangled gasp escaped the head cook's lips. They were caught.

And just as he thought of denying it.

STEP! STEP!

A heavy tread echoed down the damp corridor. Lieutenant Eamon burst into the cell, his face grim. In his hand, he clutched two glass vials, their contents a pulsating, gray mass that seemed to writhe with an unnatural life.

"What have you found, Lieutenant?" Aron's voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade.

Lieutenant Eamon approached Aron with a grave expression, holding out the bottles for him to inspect. "We found these in their belongings, Lord Commander," he explained, his voice low and steady. "I'm getting a weird feeling from them."

Aron narrowed his eyes observing Eamon's chest with his dragon sight; he saw that the parasite inside him was shaking and trying to make contact with what was inside the bottles.

"Lord commander, may I?" Keeper Eldarion stepped forward asking for one of the bottles.

Aron nodded, giving his permission. Immediately he saw Eldarion pulling a small flat stone from his pocket. A strange letter was carved on the stone which surprisingly Aron was able to read.

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"Analyze"

As Keeper Eldarion activated the stone with the carved letter, a faint green glow emanating from its surface, enveloping the glass vial in his hand. The air crackled with arcane energy as Eldarion began to chant softly under his breath, his voice resonating with ancient power.

"Interesting." Aron watched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as the contents of the vial seemed to shift and writhe in response to Eldarion's magic. The pulsating gray mass within the bottle seemed to pulse with a renewed vigor as if sensing the presence of the arcane energy.

After a few moments of intense concentration, Eldarion's chant ceased, and the glow from the stone faded away. He withdrew the vial from the stone's influence, his expression grave.

"What did you find, Keeper?" Eamon asked, his voice betraying a hint of urgency.

Yet Eldarion didn't respond; he immediately used another stone with the same function on himself.

After a tense moment, Eldarion's chant ceased, and the glow from the stone faded away. He lowered his hand, his expression now more grim than before.

He turned to the cooks, raising the bottle in the air, "Where did you get this?" he said, his voice filled with fury.

The head cook shrank back, his eyes wide with fear as Eldarion confronted him with the bottle. "We... we obtained it from that man over there," he stammered, his voice barely audible in the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon.

Everyone turned gazing at the man in the opposite cell, the one who tried to escape. He is still alive since Eamon treated his wound just to the point of keeping him alive.

"What's in the bottle, Keeper?" Aron asked.

Eldarion lowered the vial, his face etched with a mixture of disgust and horror. "This," he rasped, his voice laced with barely controlled fury, "is a Chthonic parasite from beyond the wall. It feeds on a host's magic, slowly draining them from within until nothing remains but a hollow shell."

A deep exhale escaped Eldarion's lips as he continued, "This is the same parasite that wiped the Watchers eight hundred years ago."

Aron's eyes widened with shock at the revelation. The Chthonic parasite was the reason for the downfall of the Order of the Watchers.

"And it appears that I am infected with it," the Keeper said, leaning on the cell bars.

"Not just you," Aron suddenly said, causing an expression filled with terror to appear on the old man's face.

"P-Please… don't tell me," he begged.

"I fear so, Eldarion. All the Frostguards are infected with this parasite."

The realization hit both Eldarion and Eamon like a physical blow, their shoulders slumping as the weight of the news settled upon them.

"By the Aspect," Eamon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "How could this have happened?"

Aron's expression darkened with grim resolve. "We don't have time for questions," he said, his voice tinged with urgency. "We need to act quickly… is there a cure?"

Eldarion, his face pale with despair, shook his head. "I fear not, Lord Commander. The parasite adapts to its host. A cure I might develop based on the one within me might not work for another."

"I see," Aron crossed his arms, thinking of another solution. In truth, things aren't looking bright for him and the Frostguard, and if he didn't act fast and find a cure or something to help, there wouldn't be a living Frostguard left to defend against the wall.

"There has to be something," Eamon said, his voice tight with desperation. He turned to the head-cook, shouting, "Is there a cure? For this," raising the other bottle for him to see. "TELL ME!"

Aron's gaze drifted to the bottle as Eamon held it high in the air, right then he saw hope. Quickly he turned, asking the Keeper, to confirm his theory.

"Eldarion, you said that the parasite adapts to the host, yes?"

"Yes," the old man confirmed, raising an eyebrow as he saw Aron pointing to the bottle in his hand.

"What you have in your hands is a clean sample, right?"

Eldarion's eyes widened with realization. "Yes… Yes!... A clean sample untouched by a host. There is a chance that the cure would work on anyone."

Aron's expression brightened with a glimmer of hope at Eldarion's confirmation. "Then there's hope yet," he declared, his voice filled with determination.

"Old man, do anything in your powers to develop a cure; you have my permission to use anyone and anything, understood?"

Eldarion nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I will do everything in my power, Lord Commander," he vowed, his voice steady despite the weight of the task ahead.

Aron turned to Lieutenant Eamon, his gaze unwavering. "Make sure he's completely safe; our lives depend on it," he commanded, his tone firm.

Eamon saluted crisply, his expression determined. "Consider it done, my lord," he replied, his voice resolute.

"In the meantime," Aron turned, gazing at the cooks, "I have a friendly chat with our friends here."

The cooks tumbled under his gaze; they could feel something cold wrapping around their hearts.

"Lieutenant, seal the dungeon," Aron commanded, his voice firm. "Let no one enter until I finish here."

Lieutenant Eamon snapped to attention, acknowledging the order with a crisp salute. He quickly left the dungeon followed by Keeper Eldarion, leaving Aron all alone with the prisoners.

Aron's gaze hardened as he turned toward the whimpering cooks. These were no longer cooks but traitors who had jeopardized the entire Frostguard. He picked up the food plate from the ground and approached the head-cook.

"W-What are you d-doing?"

Ignoring the head-cook's trembling question, Aron flashed a smile. "Sharing my meal," immediately he grabbed his jaw and forced it open, shoving a piece of food into the cook's mouth. The cook gagged, choking on the morsel as Aron held him firmly in place.

"Enjoying your own cooking, are you?" Aron taunted, his voice dripping with scorn. "Let's see how you like it when the parasite nests inside your chest."

The other cooks watched in horror as Aron continued to force-feed them one by one. Each bite was a cruel reminder of their betrayal, each morsel a taste of their own treachery. The cooks squirmed and gagged, their protests muffled by Aron's relentless onslaught. Their eyes pleaded for mercy, but Aron showed them none.

Finishing up, Aron sat on a wooden chair he found in the dungeon corridor, watching them with his dragon sight, noting the gathering of the parasite eggs inside their chests.

"Now let's see how long this would take."