The Song of the Severed
In ancient Somdal, warriors earned glory by collecting enemy heads. But when one young hunter returns with his bloody trophy, the forest answers—not with silence, but with song. A severed head sings beneath the moonlight… and the jungle forgets no blood. Nor does it forgive.
A folktale from Somdal
In a time when the earth was fresh and the gods’ breath still moved the winds, Somdal’s forests were vast and untamed, stretching beyond sight.
Villages rose here and there like scattered lanterns in the dark, divided by wild jungle and hidden paths known only to a few. No coins changed hands, no written laws bound men—only the primal rule of the hunt, and the blood it demanded.
In those days, a man’s worth was measured by what he brought back from the wild. A tiger’s tooth gleamed like fire in the sun. A bear’s claw, worn on the chest, marked him as one who had faced the darkness and lived.
These were the symbols of survival—earned, never given.
But above all else—above beast and shadow—true valor was judged by heads.
Yes, human heads.
To cross into another village’s land was to invite blood. Every neighboring village was an enemy until proven dead.
War was not rare—it was a rhythm, as natural as rainfall or thunder. And when battle came, a man did not merely kill.
He claimed.
The severed head of a slain enemy was more than a trophy.
It was pride. Proof. Power.
The more heads he brought back, the more he was revered. And when the time came, it was these warriors who would choose the village’s most radiant maiden—not the other way around.
They fought with bows strung from gut, spears of hardened wood, and blades sharpened with stone and silence.
There were no machines, no whispers of steel or firelight—only the raw breath of courage and the cold edge of survival. Among these warriors was a young hunter from Somdal.
Brave, but untested.
One morning, before the mist had risen, he vanished into the jungle with nothing but his spear and the weight of his own ambition.
But fate, as it always does, had been watching.
From beyond the shifting veil of leaves, a rival appeared—an enemy warrior, face painted with ash, eyes black with blood-pledge. The battle was fast and brutal.
Flesh tore. Bone cracked.
And when the forest grew still again, only the hunter of Somdal remained standing.
Following custom, he knelt in silence, then severed the enemy’s head with reverent hands. He lifted the dripping trophy and slung it across his shoulder, the spear still firm in his grasp. He turned toward home, unaware that the forest behind him was not finished.
But the sun had already bowed behind the hills. The light fled, and with it went the last comfort of day.
As night fell, the jungle changed.
The trees grew teeth. The air turned to bone. The silence was no longer peaceful—it was listening. The night in those times was not merely dark.
It was alive.
Eyes watched from unseen places. Spirits stirred beneath the roots. The hunter, once proud, now felt the weight of unseen things pressing against his skin.
As he neared the edge of Somdal, the forest swallowed all sound. Not even the wind dared move.
Panic coiled in his chest like a snake, and he cried out:
"O villagers of Somdal! Your son returns with blood-earned pride—but the night shows no mercy. Bring forth a pinewood blaze, and burn a path through this darkness!"
His voice rang through the jungle, desperate and raw.
But no footsteps came. No torches burned.
Instead… a voice answered.
Not from the trees.
Not from the wind.
But from the severed head upon his shoulder.
In a low, cold tone, it began to sing—not speak—a single, chilling line:
“Chilā-chān kha chilā-chān, kailai milā nou?”
("Moonbeams bathe the world, yet you cry for flame?")
The hunter froze—his breath caught like prey in a snare.
The spear slipped from his hand. The forest leaned in.
And again, the head sang, soft and mocking, like a lullaby for the damned:
“Chilā-chān kha chilā-chān, kailai milā nou?”
Each repetition was slower, colder, more final.
“Chilā-chān kha chilā-chān, kailai milā nou?”
The moon, once bright above, now seemed pale and distant. The shadows grew long. The path vanished. The hunter’s triumph, once golden, had curdled into dread.
His trophy was no longer a mark of glory.
It was a curse.
Some say he vanished that night, swallowed by the forest that no longer knew his name. Others claim his spirit still roams the jungles, led astray by the cursed song of the severed head—forever walking between victory and madness.
Since that night, a silence settled over Somdal like mist on still water. And from it, a truth—unspoken, but sacred—took root in every hunter's heart:
Trophies of war may sing in the shadows—and the forest never forgets.