The Coterie are a triune embodiment of the Anatomists’ cruel brilliance, three senior flesh-sculptors whose presence inspires reverence and dread. At their center is the Matron, flanked by twin apprentice-guardians. All are robed in skin, their mantles forged of barbed iron and rusted reverence, shaped into grim halos of authority.

The Matron does not walk. Her severed spine and ruined legs have been replaced by a nest of living entrails, tubercular limbs that writhe and carry her with obscene grace. She glides, never stumbling, never pausing. Her hands are steady. Her eyes unblinking. Her attendants are both protectors and disciples. Their bodies are instruments, fingers reshaped into tools, eyes hardened by horror. They move in perfect synchrony with their Matron, a ritual of menace made flesh.

Together, the Coterie do not merely perform surgery. They enforce anatomical truth. To witness them at work is to see pain wielded as commandment. Victims are not killed, they are unmade and remade in brutal worship. They are sculptors of the body’s final form.