The Anatomists are a fractured order of flesh-crafters, bone-binders, and surgical zealots, united not by doctrine, but by obsession. They do not seek purity or precision, but transformation, pushing the human form beyond its natural limits, discovering what strange marvels lie on the other side of agony. Their sanctuaries are ruinous places: charnel towers, plague pits, desecrated keeps. There, they carve and rebuild, tear down and refashion, chasing brilliance through violence and vision alike.

They worship the Fleshsmith, a transcendent being of ancient origin believed to represent absolute dominion over mortality. She offers no blessings, no miracles, only inspiration. The most fanatical among them claim to receive flashes of her insight, sudden compulsions to act, or whispered revelations beneath the bone saw. To the Anatomists, the body is not sacred because it is perfect. It is sacred because it can be broken, rebuilt, and made new. They do not pray, they rip. They do not preach, they forge. Pain is their palette, blood their ink.