What A Daughter Is Worth

Philipa slammed her bedroom door behind her and walked straight into the room.

Her pacing began immediately—short, sharp steps across the polished floor, her breaths uneven from bottled-up anger.

Why?... Why did men in this part of the world treat women as if they were born incomplete? Born inferior? Born to serve, not lead?

She stopped at her dresser, gripping the edges until her knuckles turned white.

“Why are we only allowed in kitchens and birthing rooms?” she whispered to herself. “Why can’t we fight? Or lead?" The questions twisted painfully inside her chest.

Finally, exhausted, she sank onto the small couch near the window. Her room was furnished elegantly—silks, carved wood, delicate curtains… but it felt like a prison draped in pretty colors.

What must I do to change Father’s mind? To make him see that I’m more than a womb waiting to be sold?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock. “Who is it?” she asked quietly.

“Lunch is ready, my lady,” a maid replied, her voice gentle.

Philipa closed her eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“But my lady....." 

"Leave me alone..!" She refrain from yelling. 

Yes, my lady.” Footsteps faded down the hallway.

Her shoulders sagged, she leaned back into the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her chest ached—not from hunger, but from the kind of pain that settles deep in the soul.

Another knock broke through the silence.

But this one came without a request.

The door creaked open.

Annoyance flared hot in her belly. She sat up straight, ready to snap—

"I told you..." But the words froze on her tongue.

“Mother…” she murmured.

Lyria, Luna of Crestmoon, walked in with slow, measured steps—dressed in soft blue silk, hair pinned perfectly as always. Her beauty was cold, distant, elegant.

Philipa stood for a moment, then gave a respectful bow of her head before sinking back into the couch.

Her mother came closer, eyes scanning her face. “A maid told me you refused lunch. Are you sick or something else?”

Philipa let out a tired sigh. “No. Just… tired. And confused. And... and... angry.”

Lyria raised a brow. “About?”

Philipa swallowed hard, then forced herself to speak the truth. “Why doesn’t Father like me?”

Lyria blinked. For a second, just once. Her widen eyes, but her pale face slowly returns colour.

“Your father does not hate you, Philipa,” she said in a rehearsed tone. “And he certainly does not love Kaden more. He simply follows what tradition demands.”

Something snapped inside Philipa.

“Tradition?” she repeated with a bitter laugh. “So tradition says girls are worthless? That we can’t be heirs? That I must watch Kaden, who can barely lift a sword, be praised while I’m pushed aside like nothing?”

“Philipa—”

“No!” The word burst out of her. “Why is my training report meaningless? Why can I train harder than all the boys and still be told I’m only good for marriage? Why—”

“Enough!” her mother hissed, glancing toward the door. “Lower your voice!”

Philipa stood up, unable to contain the fury anymore. “I am an Alpha-born, Mother! I have the same blood as Kaden! Why can’t I fight for the throne too?”

Lyria’s expression hardened into steel. “Because that is not your role. You must train to be a good mate to your future husband... As an excellent Luna if you are lucky to mate a born alpha like you... That is where your value lies.”

Her stomach twisted in disgust.

“My value?” she yelled. “Is that all I am to this pack? A future mate? A breeder?”

“Watch your tongue!” Lyria snapped, truly offended now. “All women in this pack serve honorably in their roles. Being a Luna, a mate, a mother—there is pride in that.”

Philipa’s jaw clenched. “Then why do most of the women here look miserable? Why do they live exhausted and voiceless? Why are we told to be quiet and obedient and grateful while men—”

“Philipa!” Her mother’s voice cracked like a whip. “If you dare continue with such disgraceful thoughts, I will report you to your father myself. Do you understand me?”

Silence suffocated the room.

Philipa lowered her eyes—not out of obedience, but to hide the burning rage that threatened to spill.

Lyria straightened her gown, regained her cold composure, and marched toward the door.

“Remove these foolish ideas from your head,” she said firmly. “You are a girl. Behave like one.” She left without looking back.

The door snapped shut. Philipa waited, lips pressed into a thin line, until she heard the guard’s muffled “Yes, my Lady.” Only then did she let herself drop back onto the couch, hands trembling with the rage she had forced down moments ago.

The room suddenly felt too suffocating and rigid.

Her pulse thudded hard in her ears as the memory of her father’s words replayed—girls don’t matter… only useful as mates… no need for your report… Each sentence cut deeper than she expected, carving out a hollow in her chest she never knew existed.

She dragged her fingers through her hair and let out a humorless hiss.

“They will not break me like this,” she whispered to herself.

Her gaze drifted slowly across the room—her neatly arranged books, the polished wardrobe, the delicate silk curtains… all the things meant to make a Crestmoon daughter appear proper, soft, decorative.

She hated every single one of them in that moment.

She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room again, anger simmering in her stomach like boiling oil.

“One thing is sure,” she muttered, voice shaking but fierce. “Heir or not, I’m not going to be dressed up and paraded like some docile mate. I won’t rot in a kitchen, and I won’t stand behind any man just because tradition says so.” She halted, breathing hard.