The Bishop, the Knight and the Scribe. The Holy Trinity, the three immaculate Saints.
The candles do not care about whether the gods are true or false, helpful or parasitic. The candles care only about the process of devotion and worship. They feed on faith, and faith comes from hate, hope, curiosity. All of those - from fear.
The Scribe creates the rules, the Bishop spreads them and guides the masses, the Knight acts in the name of the doctrine. Each of them affects each other. Each of them is infallible, incorruptible, perfect within their system, within their magical circle. The three Saints. Together, they sustain the system, while the system sustains them.
The Russian Scribe is blind; their Knight is dead, empty and rotting; and their Bishop is so full of lies it poisons the rest. A ruler who lives in his own twisted imagination. A ruthless army of the dead that still walk. So many layers of deceit that they forget what lies are told to whom. And the countless candles, grown on hate and fear.
It is dead inside, but it moves still. Each part tugs on the others, and together it tumbles and slashes with fury. It has to die at last - it had to die a long, long time ago.