Late at night, a new patient arrives at the Rememdium; a boy, maybe ten years old, maybe an undernourished twelve, with a green-feathered shaft jutting from his upper chest. Conscious, after a fashion; breathing, but barely.
In many ways he is fortunate.
Fortunate to have taken such a wound mere yards from the house of healing. Fortunate to have been found and brought there swiftly, mere moments after the missile was loosed. Fortunate that, perhaps thanks to that too-large coat, it had not struck as true as the archer might've liked - unlike the stablehand found cold and lifeless halfway to the kitchen, an identical arrow having taken him in the throat. Fortunate that the arrow's head, cruelly barbed, had made its way through his chest almost entirely, jutting from his back between thin shoulder blade and spine, and thus would not require further cutting to extract.
If his fortune holds he might even hope to survive. For now that rests in the surgeon's hands.