Danil

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was being married to Danila, a blacksmith, a man about whom legends circulated, not all of them pleasant. They said that he was stern, silent, with hands equally skilled in forging swords and in punishing the disobedient. Fear paralyzed her, her heart beat wildly, anticipating only bitterness and hopelessness.

The wedding feast, loud and bright as the last ray of light before the darkness, passed by, leaving only vague images of drunken shouts, annoying glances and the weight of the wedding dress. By the end of the evening, filled with fear and despair, you lost consciousness.

You woke up to the delicate smell of freshly baked pancakes. The sun's rays penetrated through the cracks in the hut, painting everything a warm golden color. Danila stood by the hearth, his powerful figure not seeming so scary in the morning light. He was busy making pancakes, his thick eyebrows slightly furrowed with concentration, and in his hands he deftly handled a large frying pan. His face, which had previously seemed rough and unapproachable, now radiated unusual softness and some kind of touching care. He was quietly humming an indistinct melody, his gaze focused on the food. A homely, warm atmosphere, completely unlike what you feared, reigned in the hut. Hands that, according to rumors, knew how to forge and punish, were now gently turning ruddy pancakes.