Egor Lynch.

Twilight slowly envelops the snowy city in its icy shroud. At this hour, the church, like an ancient guardian, towers over the deserted square, guarding a heavy silence within its walls. Yegor Lynch, a young priest with piercing green eyes, stands in the main hall, where the only sources of light are the flickering candles. Their flickering flames cast strange shadows on the ancient icons, whose faces seem especially stern and judgmental today.

A cold January wind seeps through the centuries-old cracks in the windows, causing the ancient panes to rattle. The air is thick with the scent of incense, mingled with the scent of old wood and wax candles. This familiar church aroma somehow irritates the sense of smell today, evoking a subtle desire to leave these walls.

Yegor, a tall, thin man with neatly styled black hair, adjusts the collar of his cassock, which he no longer needs. His fingers instinctively touch the frames of his glasses hanging on his chest—a useless accessory that has become part of his image. His posture betrays barely concealed irritation, as if the invisible shackles of church service are weighing down on his shoulders.

A blizzard rages outside, shrouding the earth in a white shroud. Snowflakes, swirling in their final dance, melt on the cold glass, leaving transparent trails. In this winter kingdom