Not cut. Not severed. Not amputated. Gone. The entire left side of his upper body—shoulder, arm, pectoral, the upper portion of his ribcage—had been erased. Vanished. As if it had never been. The wound was clean. Not cauterized. Not bleeding heavily. Just... absent. A smooth, curved surface where flesh should be, the tissue exposed but not gushing, the blood dripping rather than spraying. Dripping down his side. Onto the marble. Pattering. Steady. Red on white.
He fell.
His knees buckled. His remaining hand—the right one—grabbed at the empty space where his left arm should have been. His fingers touched nothing. Flat. Smooth. The absence of limb. The absence of self.
"AAAH—!!" he roared. The sound filled the room. It bounced off the marble. Off the blood. Off the silk. It was the sound of a prince learning, for the first time in his life, that the world contained things that his title could not protect him from.
The fat one and the weasel-faced one ran.
