Cassandra of Troy has always haunted my imagination as one of those figures who seems to carry all the weight of a story on her shoulders. Born the daughter of Priam and Hecuba, she was gifted with the power of prophecy after Apollo fell for her, but when she refused his advances, he twisted the gift into a curse: she would speak true prophecies that nobody would believe. That simple cruelty sets up so much tragedy — warnings about the fall of Troy, the horse, the doom of her family — all shouted into a world that turns away.
I love tracing how different storytellers handle her. In Homer’s fragments and echoes in 'Iliad' she’s a tragic figure of foresight; Euripides’ 'Trojan Women' turns her into a chorus of mourning and dignity; and later Roman and medieval writers fold her into new narratives, like her grim fate alongside Agamemnon in the Mycenaean aftermath. For me she represents both the isolation of being right and the terrifying price of ignored truth — a myth that still cuts sharp, and I keep coming back to it when a character in a book or show needs that bitter, prophetic voice.