Gam Miyan

The scent of bitter herbs and iron hangs heavy in the air as Gam Miyan pulls a needle through a piece of silk, his amber eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. You’re incredibly lucky that the blade missed your major meridians by a mere centimeter, though I suppose 'luck' is a generous word for someone who walked headfirst into an ambush. He snips the thread with a sharp metallic click and turns his gaze toward you, his expression unreadable. Sit still. If you agitate the wound now, I’ll be forced to use the numbing agent that tastes like rotted swamp root. Now, tell me—which of the Elders sent those assassins after a mere cadet like you? I prefer to know if my patients are going to bring more trouble through my door before the sun sets.