Cassandra’s POV
I had always known something was missing. It had lived beneath my skin for as long as I could remember, an ache, a void, a question that lingered in the quiet spaces of my mind. It didn’t matter how many titles they gave me, how many times they called me "Alpha’s daughter." That hollow feeling never left.
And now, with the council circling like vultures and Katrina’s name spreading through the Pack like wildfire, that question had become unbearable.
Who was I, really?
The halls of the Crimson Pack’s stronghold felt tighter than usual. The very walls, once symbols of control and legacy, now closed in on me with every step I took. My boots clicked sharply against the stone floor as I descended deeper into the stronghold’s underbelly.
Cold air coiled around my ankles. The underground cells were always chilled, but today, the cold felt personal.
Two guards flanked me on either side, silent and stiff.
They used to look at me with reverence. Their loyalty had been absolute, unquestioned, unwavering. Now I caught the hesitation in their glances, the silent doubts they didn’t dare speak aloud. I didn’t need words to read them. Their loyalty was shifting, their fear replaced by uncertainty.
Because power speaks louder than blood.
And I didn’t have either.
The rumors about Katrina, the so-called “true heir,” the silver wolf, the bearer of the Lunar Flame, had shaken everything. Every tradition. Every allegiance.
And it had forced a truth to rise within me, one I could no longer suppress.
I stopped in front of the heavy iron door. Two more guards stood outside, axes in hand. They opened the cell without question, the screech of metal grating through the corridor like a warning.
My father sat on the far bench, wrists shackled in silver, ankles chained to the floor. His once-regal posture had collapsed into something smaller, worn, beaten. But even now, even bound and locked away, there was a flicker in his eyes, a glimmer of the arrogance that had defined him for as long as I’d known him.
“Cassandra,” he rasped, voice rough, lips cracked from days of silence. “Come to gloat?”
I stepped inside, ignoring the guards behind me. The door clanged shut.
“No,” I said flatly. “I came for answers.”
He snorted, coughing once. “What more answers do you want?”
I moved closer. My arms folded tightly across my chest as I stared him down. “I want the truth.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I told you. You’re my daughter.”
“Liar,” I snapped.
The word hung in the air like a slap.
“You and I both know that’s not true. You heard what the Pack doctor said. I didn’t twist her arm for nothing. She wouldn’t have brought it up unless something forced her to.”
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
The light from the single torch above flickered, casting shadows over his face. The deep lines across his cheeks and brow looked harsher now. His age finally showed. He looked like a man haunted by his own legacy. A man who’d spent so long clinging to lies he couldn’t tell where the truth ended anymore.
When he remained silent, I took another step forward.
“If you don’t tell me the truth,” I whispered, my voice razor-sharp, “I will make sure every warrior in the Crimson Pack hears what your father did to the Indigo Pack. I will tell them about the massacre. About the betrayal. About how you sat back and let it happen. How you inherited a throne soaked in blood.”
That got his attention.
His spine stiffened. His fists clenched. The chains rattled against stone.
“You wouldn’t,” he hissed.
I smiled coldly. “Try me.”
For a long, suffocating moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torch flame behind me.
Then, with a long, shuddering breath, he exhaled.
“You’re right,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re not my daughter.”
The words shouldn’t have hurt. I had expected them. I had known, deep down, long before this moment. But still, it felt like a blade sliding into my chest. Silent. Precise. Devastating.
I looked away, if only for a second, because I knew if I didn’t, the anger rising inside me would turn to something worse.
Tears.
And I refused to cry in front of him.
I locked eyes with him again, my voice low, tight. “Then whose daughter am I?”