Ravaged by Disappointment

Being a princess sucked.

Wake up. Look presentable. Act perfect. Sip tea with distant relatives who never cared enough to remember your name. Repeat.

It was a life of bland, beige luxury—the emotional equivalent of wet toast. And Princess Atria had spent all 23 years of it quietly dying inside embroidered corsets and conversations with suitors who blinked too slowly and came too quickly.

There was no danger. No excitement. No chance of being tied to the bedpost and tongued down with confident gusto.

So, with that horrifying future looming ahead, Atria devised a plan.

One that would bring her everything she wanted in just a few simple steps—and went against everything the King (her father) had ever taught her.

He made a habit of sitting her down once a week to go over her “life commandments,” drilling them into her like she was some delicate creature made of glass and shame.

“NEVER leave the castle,”

Atria hummed cheerfully to herself as she walked across a distant plain, not a single fuck given.

“Don’t make foolish choices, especially ones that would tarnish the family name.”

She danced her way up to a half-ruined castle—one still bearing the scars of a recent siege. Torn red banners flapped hauntingly in the wind, signaling the arrival of new inhabitants.

The scouts in the crumbling towers spotted her at once. Within minutes, she was surrounded.

Big.

Muscular.

Green.

Orcs.

The eight-foot-tall giants whooped with delight, their excited movements sending loincloths flapping—and revealing features that were... surprisingly underwhelming.

“And if you ever find yourself captured,” her father’s voice echoed in her head, “never tell them who you are or how important you are.”

“My name is Princess Atria of the kingdom of Sol,” she announced proudly. “I’m worth over a million gold.”

The orcs cheered and clapped each other on the back, thrilled with their catch.

Atria grinned too.

Everything was going exactly as she planned.

***

The orcs carried her to the top of a tall tower within the fortress, one that had once been used to house prisoners.

The king had quickly issued a massive reward for the princess's safe return. Surely someone—some brave, brawny, someone—would soon be on their way to rescue her.

Atria couldn’t help but purr at the thought as the ropes were tightened around her wrists.

The orc currently restraining her paused and gave a confused, slightly uncomfortable look.

Atria smiled and wriggled her arms playfully, showing they were still loose, and he should go tighter.

To her dismay, the orc remained completely oblivious to her subtle hint and stood up, satisfied with his work.

“I hope you enjoy your stay, Your Highness,” he said, giving a mocking bow.

Atria raised her bound hands and pouted in false fear. “B—but… whatever will you do to me now that I’m completely at your mercy?”

He scratched his head “I dunno.”

She stared at him blankly.

These guys probably think the clit is somewhere near the spleen.

Another orc walked in and immediately slapped the first one upside the head.

“Idiot! She’s bait. We use her to lure in knights—then we kill ’em, loot ’em, and get rich!”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words.

Mmmm, knights.

Strong, sweaty, vascular men who’d storm the fortress, defeat impossible odds, and carry her away.

For the first time in her life, Atria felt exhilarated. She had broken free from the bland routine of nobility—broken her curse. She was finally living.

The orc who sucked at bondage mumbled an apology and followed the other out of the room. The iron door slammed shut behind them.

Atria sighed dramatically and sauntered over to the gaping hole in the tower wall—likely the result of a cannonball.

She giggled as she gazed out at the glorious chaos she’d orchestrated. Her plan was coming together before her very eyes.

The fortress was massive, brimming with orcs. Some slept lazily on the castle stairs, others forged weapons or herded stolen horses.

Below her were wooden cages holding prisoners from the previous regime.

And circling above it all—a massive green wyvern, the size of a small building. Its wings spanned like tavern roofs, and it occasionally let out bursts of fire just to remind everyone who was in charge.

It was perfect.

Only someone truly incredible could storm this place, free the prisoners, and rescue her from the tower

She sat on the ledge, perched dramatically with one leg bent and the other dangling, practicing her most helpless-yet-striking pose.

“Oh, won’t someone come and ravage...—I mean rescue—me?” she called into the distance.

An orc glanced up and laughed. “Ain’t nobody comin’ through those gates, princess! You’re askin’ for a miracle that don’t exist.”

“Perhaps,” she offered, “you should gag me!... To silence my pleas, I mean.”

The orc looked horrified. “What? No! Haven’t you heard of freedom of speech? We’d never silence a woman.

Huh, these orcs are surprisingly progressive. That’s kind of cool.

Thanks?

Still, she overheard murmurs from outside her chamber:

“Have you heard the rumors?”

“About the knight the king hired?”

“Arms like tree trunks. Cracked a mountain in half with his bare hands.”

“Never misses with a bow. Knocked a thimble clean off a barrel from a mile away.”

“And hung—uh, I mean deadly.”

Atria bit her lip with hungry desire.

Now that sounded promising.

***

Twelve hours later.

Atria lay flat on her back, limbs splayed out like a bored starfish.

“Uuuugh”.

She dragged the sound out like her soul was trying to crawl out of her chest.

She had untied herself hours ago and was now using the rope to lasso bits of rubble around the room. (It was actually kind of therapeutic.)

Night had fallen. Still no knight. Still no sign of any mercenaries riding toward the fortress to save her.

Perhaps this wasn’t going to work, she thought. Maybe I wanted too much.

Down below, the camp had shifted into celebration.

Mead flowed. Bonfires raged. Orcs danced—but their moves mostly consisted of shuffling in place and thrusting at the air.

Atria raised an eyebrow. If this turned into an orgy, at least she’d die slightly less bored.

The wyvern had coiled itself around her tower like an oversized snake. It let out lazy smoke rings in its sleep.

Atria sighed, dragging herself upright.

Guess I’ll be leaving.

Maybe fantasies weren’t meant to be real.

Then—

A scream.

The tower shook as the wyvern awoke, it let loose a thunderous blast of fire into the night sky.

The camp erupted in chaos.

Orcs drunkenly scrambled to grab weapons, tripping over each other, many dropping their swords in the process.

“HE’S HERE!” one of them yelled.

He’s here! Atria thought, giddy.

She quickly retied her wrists and moved to the ledge, craning to see the action through the darkness.

The orcs rushed to the gate just as it began to shake violently.

Then it splintered.

Then it was torn clean off its hinges.

A low mist rolled in through the opening—and out of it strode a dark figure clad in armor, dragging a greatsword across the stone. Tall. Broad. Deadly.

A knight.

Atria’s heart fluttered. Her thighs crossed. A familiar flame sparked in her core.

He moved like a force of nature—tearing through the orcs with wild precision. His sword sang as it cut through flesh.

“Oh. Yeah. He’s perfect,” Atria whispered. “He’s everything I wan—”

She squinted.

Huh.

His supposed “tree trunk” arms looked more like decorative branches and his stamina seemed to be quickly dying (this could really affect the long ravaging she was expecting later, if he even makes it that far).

The knight began wheezing as his sword swipes grew slow and lazy.

Does he have asthma?

Atria tilted her head. She supposed she could look past that, as long as he had powerful eyes and could command a room with his words.

The flame flickered but held strong.

“I WILL SAVE THEE, PRINCESS!” he bellowed, coughing mid-sentence. “AND BRING THEE TO A LIFE OF SAFETY AND LUXURY, WHERE YOU SHALL NEVER BE IN DANGER AGAIN!”

The flame died.

That was not what she wanted.

She had no interest in being “safe.” No desire to go back to her old life. Doubts began to creep in.

Then he shouted—

“Your father has also granted me thy hand in marriage as a reward for your rescue! Isn’t that wonderful?!”

Atria’s body went still.

The fire in her core wasn’t desire anymore.

It was rage.

“He said what...?” she whispered, one eye twitching.

She watched as the knight strolled right past the prisoner cages—making no move to help anyone.

The wyvern swooped down from the tower, diving straight at him.

He let out a shriek, tripped over a discarded spear, and slammed face-first into the ground with a loud, echoing “OOF.”

He tried to stand, but his leg buckled.

Ah. Seems he sprained his ankle.

How lovely.

A trio of orcs wielding massive clubs burst out laughing and began lumbering toward him.

The knight scrambled backward in panic. Then—thinking himself clever—spun dramatically, pulled out his bow, and fired.

He missed the orcs entirely.

The arrow slammed into the stone wall right next to Atria’s head.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t yell.

She just glared down at him like she was mentally dismembering him—and enjoying it.

He wailed louder, curling into the fetal position as the orcs surrounded him and the wyvern hovered closer.

Well, she thought. So much for that plan.

She stopped flexing.

Her ropes broke instantly—like cheap ribbon.

Atria rolled her shoulders with a satisfying pop, powerful muscles blooming beneath her dress like they'd just remembered what they were built for.

She needed to release some tension.

She glanced down at a large chunk of rubble near her foot, then kicked it.

It flew with deadly speed—like it had been launched from a siege weapon—and struck the wyvern square in the back of the skull.

The beast shrieked and spun to face her.

The orcs froze mid-step.

The iron door to her chamber unlatched with a heavy clang, and two guards burst in—

Just in time to see her draw two pitch-black longswords from the folds of her dress.

They opened their mouths to yell but no sound followed.

Their heads hit the floor a moment before the rest of their bodies caught up.

She marched to the opposite side of the room, rolled her neck once, then dropped into a few squats to loosen her hamstrings.

She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

Then exploded into a sprint.

Her legs launched her from the broken wall, sending her soaring into the night air like a firework.

She flipped once midair—mostly for flair—and landed squarely on the wyvern’s back.

The beast yelped in surprise

Atria took off running across its spine, blades flashing. She slashed left, right, carving her way toward its neck in a graceful blur of motion.

When she reached it, she didn’t hesitate.

She drove both blades deep.

The wyvern let out a final, deafening roar before its wings locked mid-beat. It seized, spiraled, and crashed into the courtyard—crushing a cluster of orcs in a fiery heap.

Atria rose from the wreckage, covered in ash and glory.

The entire battlefield froze.

Orcs. Knights. Prisoners. All stared—slack-jawed, stunned, and a little turned on.

“She… she killed Andrew,” one of the orcs said softly, looking down at the wyvern’s body.

“He’d finally gotten into college.”

Atria didn’t pause.

She dove into the next wave of orcs, leaping from one to the next like a dancer in warpaint. Her blades spun in elegant, deadly arcs—precision and strength flowing through her like music. Every step was purpose. Every slash was poetry.

When the final body fell, silence reigned.

Atria stood alone in the center of the carnage. Blood steaming on her blades. Hair windswept. Breathing slow.

She freed the prisoners with a few clean swipes of her blades and made sure each one had a horse to reach the neighboring kingdom safely.

The knight had waited—awkwardly pressed against a wall, trying his best to look cool.

He straightened as the princess approached and began to say,

“So. Shall we—?”

She walked right past him, not even paying him a glance.

“HEY! Where are you going?!” he called after her.

“To a kingdom in the east,” she said, flicking a strand of wyvern blood off her dress. “I hear it’s overrun by barbarians. I’m hoping they’ll put up more of a fight—or at the very least, be a tad handsier.”

“But… you’re a princess.”

She shrugged, mounting the last horse in the fort—the knight’s horse.

“I was. But waiting around for someone to come save me is boring. Seems more fun to just do it myself.”

It finally dawned on him that his ride was getting jacked.

“WHAT ARE YOU—”

But Atria had already spurred into a gallop.

She didn’t look back.

Her mind was preoccupied—

Fantasizing about barbarians.