Chapter 2

Casandra pov

I remember the scene from my childhood as if it were yesterday. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of an oil lamp, casting flickering shadows on the walls. I was nestled in a corner, lost in the pages of a book that had transported me to a world far beyond our lavish estate. But then, the sound of heavy footsteps broke the tranquility, and I knew my father was approaching.

I looked up from the pages of the book, my heart pounding as he entered the room. His eyes, usually stern, were ablaze with anger. He saw the book in my hands and his face turned crimson. "Cassandra," he barked, his voice echoing off the walls, "what do you think you're doing?"

I bit my lip, unable to meet his gaze. "I was reading, Father."

His laughter was devoid of mirth. "Reading? You dare squander your time on such trivial pursuits? Your only purpose is to carry on our family legacy, not waste your hours on frivolous tales."

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I had learned from a young age that showing weakness was unacceptable. "I'm sorry, Father."

He sighed, his anger slowly ebbing away. "You must understand, Cassandra, the burden you carry. Our family name is steeped in tradition, in power. It is your duty to ensure that legacy thrives."

As he spoke, the weight of expectation settled on my young shoulders. I nodded, understanding that my dreams of escaping into the worlds of books were nothing more than a fleeting fantasy. My father's gaze softened, and he left the room, the weight of his words lingering long after he was gone.

Snap.

The sound of a snapped twig outside the house jerked me out of my reverie. The memories of that day still had the power to shake me, even after all these years. I blinked, my eyes refocusing on the opulent room around me.

I sat at my ornate writing desk, surrounded by luxurious fabrics, intricate decor, and the trappings of wealth. The room was a reflection of the life my family had built, a life of prestige and power. But it was also a prison, a gilded cage that confined me to a destiny I had never asked for.

I dipped my quill into the inkwell, my hand hovering over the parchment. Words flowed from my mind to the paper, an escape from the confines of my reality. But with every stroke of the quill, fear gnawed at me. Fear that my father might find out.

The door to my room creaked open, and my heart leaped into my throat. I hastily closed the book I had been writing, hoping that my father hadn't seen it.

And then he was there, in all his imposing glory. My father stood in the doorway, his stern face framed by graying hair. His gaze swept over the room, as if assessing the opulence that surrounded me. I kept my eyes averted, my hands clenched in my lap.

"Cassandra," his voice was low, commanding. "We need to talk."

I nodded, my heart racing. The atmosphere in the room felt suffocating, and I struggled to catch my breath.

He stepped further into the room, his presence overwhelming. "The time has come, Cassandra. Werewolf University awaits you."

My pulse quickened. I had known this day was coming, but the reality of it struck me like a bolt of lightning. "Yes, Father."

"You will be giving the opening speech for your set," he continued, his tone unwavering. "You will show everyone that the legacy of our family is strong."

As he spoke, his expectations bore down on me, threatening to crush me beneath their weight. I nodded again, my voice caught in my throat.

He regarded me for a moment before turning to leave. "Prepare yourself, Cassandra. The future of our family rests on your shoulders. The Lycoan name must live on."

As the door closed behind him, I slumped back in my chair, my heart a mix of dread and despair. I gazed at the closed book in my hands, the words I had written hidden from the world. All I wanted was to escape this suffocating destiny, to chase my own dreams.I didn't ask to be a direct descendant of Lycaon. Most of my peers would be glad to have such an honour. If only they knew the turmoil it brought.

As the minutes ticked by, my anger and frustration grew. The desire to break free from the chains of my family legacy consumed me. I hated the path that had been chosen for me, the expectations that I could never live up to.

My father's words echoed in the confines of my mind, each syllable driving a wedge deeper between me and the destiny he had mapped out. The anger within me simmered, fueled by years of suppressed desires and dreams I had been forced to bury. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my anger was not just directed at him, but at the entire system that dictated my life.

How many times had I been denied the chance to explore my passions, to follow the path that truly resonated with my soul? How many times had my aspirations been sacrificed on the altar of tradition? The weight of my father's expectations pressed upon me, and I despised the way they had snuffed out the fire of my own ambitions.

I clenched my fists, my knuckles white against my skin. It was unfair—unfair that I had been born into a life where my worth was measured by the legacy I carried, rather than by my own dreams and desires. My anger wasn't just about defying my father; it was about breaking free from the shackles that had held me captive for so long.

As I sat there, my gaze fell on the book I had been writing, the ink-stained pages a testament to my secret rebellion. My hands trembled, torn between the fear of discovery and the burning need to claim a piece of my life for myself. Every word I had penned was a defiant declaration, a testament to the person I longed to be.

If only I could write my own future