Mated To The Cruel Prince-Chapter 792: Slaughter House

There was a rustling sound, faint but unmistakable. Instinctively, Islinda reached out and snatched an arrow from the air, her reflexes taking over before she even realized what had happened. She stared at the arrow in disbelief, the shock of what she had done spreading across her face.

A grin broke out, and she turned to Andre, her eyes wide with pride, as if to say, did you see that? She had just caught an arrow with her bare hands— her bare hands?!

Unfortunately, her celebration was short-lived.

In her moment of triumph, Islinda didn’t notice the figure that had slipped through the crowd, silent and deadly. Before she could react, she felt a sharp, searing pain in her chest.

Islinda’s breath hitched as she looked down, the glint of a dagger catching her eye. It was buried deep in her flesh, and her hand reflexively reached for the wound, her fingers trembling as they touched the warm blood that began to flow.

Time seemed to slow as she stumbled, her smile fading, replaced by shock and confusion. The sounds of battle became a distant roar in her ears as the reality of what had happened sank in. She looked up at Andre, her eyes wide, searching for understanding, for comfort, but all she saw was horror reflected in his face.

The world around her began to blur, the edges of her vision darkening as her strength left her. She fell to her knees, the dagger still lodged in her chest, and for a moment, the chaos of the arena seemed far away, as if it were happening in another world entirely.

"No!" Andre’s scream tore through the air, but by then, Islinda’s body had already begun to crumple, her hand slipping away from the arrow she had so proudly caught just moments ago.

Her bare hands... now stained with blood.

The air cracked with a violent burst as Andre’s rage exploded from his body. A whirlwind of force pushed the bodies around him aside, clearing a path as he rushed toward Islinda, catching her just before her body could fully collapse to the ground.

"No, no, no..." Andre’s voice was thick with terror, guilt gnawing at him as he held her in his arms. This shouldn’t have happened—not while he was supposed to be protecting her. His grip tightened as if holding her could somehow undo the stabbing, could somehow pull her back from the brink.

He looked up, frantically searching for the assailant, but the figure had already melted into the chaotic crowd. The bastard was gone, and so was any chance for immediate revenge.

Help.

He needed to get Islinda help. She was half Fae, Andre thought, clinging to hope. She could survive this. She had to survive this.

Without a second thought, Andre pulled Islinda close and carried her, his focus solely on getting her out of the arena, away from the madness.

Unbeknownst to Andre, Aldric had witnessed the entire scene play out.

Standing in the center of the arena, he was frozen, watching the moment of Islinda’s stabbing replay in his mind, over and over again.

His mate—his little human—had been stabbed right in front of him, and he had done nothing.

Valerie’s frozen body, once his target, was now forgotten.

All around him, the commotion raged on, but Aldric heard none of it. His mind was consumed by a singular, pounding thought:destroy them all. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

Darkness began to seep from Aldric’s form. At the same time, the arena’s magic barrier, which had once held firm against the chaos, was starting to lift as the witches worked to rescue Prince Valerie.

The match was undoubtedly over, and all focus should have been on getting Valerie out of the ice. But something about Aldric’s stillness drew attention.

One of the guards noticed first. Aldric had been standing too quietly, too still, and now shadows were creeping from his body, snaking across the ground.

The atmosphere shifted as dark clouds began to gather overhead, casting long, ominous shadows over the arena. A foreboding sense of dread settled over those still fighting.

"That’s the dark Fae bastard!" one of the bloodlusted Faeries screamed, his voice cutting through the tension. "Let’s get rid of this abomination once and for all!"

Fueled by hatred and the frenzy of battle, more Faeries took up the cry. "Yes!" they shouted, their eyes wild. Emboldened by the chaos, they charged toward the arena, determined to kill Aldric once and for all.

"Oh no," The guard breathed in realization, his face pale as he recognized the imminent bloodbath.

He turned to the witches, his voice panicked. "Put the barrier back on! Now! Hurry! Do it right now!"

The witches, sensing the urgency, scrambled to obey. They began weaving their magic, desperate to seal the arena once more before things spiraled further out of control. But Aldric, his lips curling into a menacing smile, had no intention of allowing that to happen.

Without warning, shadows shot from Aldric’s body and struck the first witch, knocking her unconscious before she could finish the spell. The barrier flickered, stopping halfway.

The remaining witch, eyes wide with fear, realized what Aldric had done. She tried to fight back, to both defend herself and complete the barrier, but Aldric was too powerful, too consumed by rage. It wasn’t long before his shadows overwhelmed her, and she too crumpled to the ground, the barrier’s magic fading entirely.

The arena was now open. Open for all who dared to fight him. Open for all who wanted death.

"Take the crown prince out of here!" the guard bellowed, his voice thick with dread. He understood all too well what was about to happen.

As if on cue, the remaining guards rushed forward, carrying the unconscious Prince Valerie away just as the first of the Faeries rushed into the arena.

The once-contained chaos had been unleashed, and Aldric’s presence—dark, wrathful, and ready to destroy—was the epicenter.

And then the battle began.

With no barrier, the arena transformed into a slaughterhouse. Faeries surged forward, aiming for Aldric, their hatred and bloodlust driving them. But Aldric was ready, his shadows swirling like a storm, cutting down anyone who dared approach him.

This was no longer a match. This was a slaughter house. And he was their butcher.