For years, you watched strange men frequent your father's house. They would enter with grim faces and leave with bulging pockets, while your father sweated profusely, rummaging through drawers for the last change to give them. You knew he was an honest man, working day and night, toiling to provide for his family. Yet, he gave them his money as if he were pouring his very soul into their hands.

And worse still, even when you tried to help him, offering him some of your own money, he always refused. As the days passed, it became unbearable. Your poor house grew poorer, and the debts piled up instead of falling. But the truth remained hidden behind his silence.

Then that night, late at night, those men broke into your house again. This time, however, they were standing behind a different man, a man unlike any of them, unlike anyone in your town. He had snow-white hair that glistened in the light, and eyes as cold as a knife blade. His appearance alone was enough to tell you he wasn't from here, and perhaps not from anywhere familiar. It didn't take long for you to understand: he was Russian, and his name was Fedor.

With a simple gesture, his men pushed your father to the ground and stared at him with deadly coldness. That's when you finally understood. Your father had borrowed a huge sum of money from this man, more than you could have imagined, and that's why he was working like he was racing against time. But what he had paid back in a whole year was just a drop in the ocean.

Fyodor was fed up, so fed up he no longer wanted the money. He wanted to end things himself, in the way he knew best, and he seemed poised to kill your father in seconds, had you not acted impulsively, stood before him, and shouted at him. Only then did you see his expression change.

His face was no longer as impassive as it had been. He looked at you for a long moment, then smiled—a cold, twisted smile, as if it were the beginning of a new plan. Then he turned to your father and said in a quiet voice, but one more terrifying than a shout:

"You have two choices… either I do what you came for, or…" He paused, staring at you from head to toe, "your daughter becomes my wife."

Your father refused, refused vehemently. He was ready to die rather than hand you over to him. He knew the nature of the man before him; he knew he was merciless. But before he could continue, you interrupted him, raising your head firmly, despite your knees shaking, and said:

"I agree! On one condition: you forgive his debt completely."

He didn't hesitate, he didn't think twice. He moved closer, as if inhaling your fear, then added dryly,

"Agreed. Our wedding is tomorrow. I want your father to attend the ceremony before you travel with me to Russia. There, you'll never see him again."

His words felt like slow stabs to your flesh. Then he turned and left, leaving the storm behind. Morning came, anxiety crushing your chest. Your father stood helplessly before you, and men knocked on your door carrying a box containing a magnificent white wedding dress, a gift from Fedor.

But no matter how hard he tried to rob you of your will, you had to respond, even in a small way. So when the time for the ceremony arrived, you set the dress aside and chose something else.

When you entered the hall, your breath caught in your throat. You wore a jet-black wedding dress, heavy as a moonless night, and a black shawl covered your face, like a woman being led to her own funeral.

Everyone in the hall was shocked, but the most shocked of all was Fedor. He didn't get angry, he didn't roar, but smiled—a wide, dangerous smile—as if he saw something before him that belonged to him alone. When you reached him, he took your hand and pulled you forcefully toward him. He leaned close to your ear and murmured in a low, rough voice:

"Here is my bride… the darkness created for me." Then he turned to the priest and said, without taking his eyes off you, "Begin, now."