The castle of Arata rose like a dream carved out of moonlight. Its marble spires pierced the pale blue morning sky, glimmering as if dusted with crushed diamonds. Banners of crimson and gold rippled from every tower, catching the wind and reflecting the joy of the capital below. The kingdom's heart—Hasselgrad, the grand capital of Arata—bustled with life as though the city itself had awakened to celebrate.
The cobbled streets overflowed with people from every corner of the realm—farmers in their simple tunics, merchants with silks and spices, nobles glittering with jewels. From the lowest alley to the highest terrace, every window was adorned with flowers, and every voice hummed the same refrain: "Long live the King! Long live King Revan!"
In front of the castle gates stood an array of magnificent carriages. Their bodies gleamed with polished wood and gilded patterns, drawn by horses of impossible beauty—tall, muscular creatures with coats white as snow and eyes dark as midnight lakes. Even the horses wore ceremonial armor encrusted with sapphires and silver chains that chimed softly with every movement.
Today was not an ordinary day in Arata. Today was the wedding of King Revan Bighart, ruler of the realm, beloved by his people for his kindness, wisdom, and courage. He was a man said to be born under the Star of Virtue, destined to lead his people to peace—and now, to bind his heart to the woman he had loved since boyhood.
Inside the great hall of the castle, the air shimmered with light and fragrance. White and red rose petals blanketed the entrance, waiting for the bride's footsteps to bless them. Musicians tuned their harps and flutes, filling the air with soft melodies that blended with the laughter and chatter of courtiers. Every surface gleamed—mirrors reflected chandeliers dripping with crystals, and golden walls caught the sun like a second dawn.
At the far end of the hall stood a grand statue—two figures locked in an eternal embrace. The man, carved in white stone, smiled with warmth and strength; the woman, delicate and graceful, leaned into him, her marble eyes glistening as though alive. It was the statue of King Elric and Queen Marena, the founders of Arata, whose love was said to have tamed an age of war.
Before that statue, standing tall and regal in white and silver robes, was King Revan Bighart himself. His long black hair, tied neatly behind his neck, shimmered beneath the golden light. His eyes—deep hazel, bright with pride and nervous joy—were fixed upon the grand doors at the end of the hall. At his side stood the High Priest of Arata, robed in violet and gold, murmuring blessings beneath his breath.
Outside, a horn sounded. The crowd fell silent.
The moment had come.
Revan's heartbeat echoed in his chest like a war drum. The doors creaked open, and sunlight spilled into the hall, scattering over the rose petals, over the guests, and finally—upon her.
There she stood.
Clad in a gown of pearl white, her veil glistening like dew at dawn, Lady Seraphine Elcrest—his childhood friend, his confidante, his love—stepped forward. Each step was soft, measured, graceful. Her golden hair flowed like silk down her shoulders, and her smile was the light of his world.
The hall breathed as one. The musicians played the Melody of Blossoms, the song sung only once a generation—when true love united the royal bloodline.
Revan felt the world blur around him. For years, he had waited for this moment—the day when his dreams would become flesh and warmth.
As Revan looked at her—his bride, his salvation, his reason—the hall, the guests, even the fragrance of roses seemed to dissolve into mist. In that single moment, his heart traveled backward—beyond years, beyond kingdoms, beyond worlds.
He remembered.
Not the life of a king. Not the glory of the throne.
But the life of an ordinary man—on Earth.
He had been no one special there. Just a young man lost in a crowded world, buried beneath the weight of unfulfilled dreams and endless routine. His room had been small, his life quieter than silence itself. Books were his only escape. Worlds written by others became the only places where his soul could breathe.
And one night, as rain tapped gently against his window, he stumbled upon a novel that would change everything.
Its name was "The Song of Arata."
He remembered the first line, as if etched into his soul:
"When the white castle blooms, destiny shall awaken."
At first, it was just another fantasy tale—magic, kingdoms, battles, heroes and villains. But then she appeared. Seraphine Elcrest. The woman who would unknowingly claim his heart with nothing but ink and imagination.
Her character was kind, brave, impossibly gentle—a healer who saw light even in monsters, who smiled even when her world burned. She was fictional, yes, but to him, she felt realer than anyone he had ever known.
Page after page, he read about her laughter, her struggles, her pain. And when she fell in love with the novel's main hero—a man of fire and valor—his chest had ached with a strange, hollow sorrow.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was something far deeper.
A yearning to protect her, even if she could never know him.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into years. He would reread her story again and again, memorizing every word as though each one were a prayer. He wished—just once—to be there, not as the hero, not even as a knight… but as someone who could keep her safe.
And then, one night, the world changed.
He could still recall it—the lightning that split the sky, the blinding pain that tore through his chest, the whispers that called his name in a language unknown. When he awoke, he wasn't in his world anymore.
He was in hers.
The air had tasted different, heavy with magic. The sky shimmered with colors no human eyes had ever seen. And when he looked into a river's reflection, it was not his face staring back—it was a stranger's. A prince's.
Revan Bighart.
A side character from The Song of Arata.
The one who, in the story, died before the great war began.
At first, he thought it was madness. But when he saw her—Lady Seraphine, seating beneath a cherry tree feeding little squirrels , the same woman from the pages—he understood.
It wasn't madness.
It was fate.
He had been given another life. A chance not to be the reader anymore, but the savior.
And from that day forward, every breath, every heartbeat, every decision he made was for her.
He learned swordsmanship to protect her.
Politics to secure her safety.
Warcraft to guard the peace around her.
He changed destiny itself, twisting the threads of fate so that this time, she would live.
Even when she looked at the story's hero with eyes filled with love, Revan never faltered. He smiled, stood by her, shielded her from harm—even when it broke him.
And now, after years of struggle, blood, and sacrifice, she stood before him once more—not as a dream, not as a name on paper, but as his bride.
He had won what his past self could only imagine.
He had turned his dream into reality.
The sound of the priest's voice echoed softly through the grand hall.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
King Revan and Lady Seraphine stood before the altar, bathed in golden light that filtered through the stained glass above them. The fragrance of roses still lingered, sweet and heady. Outside, the kingdom cheered; inside, silence ruled — the kind that belongs only to sacred moments.
The High Priest lifted his staff and spoke, his tone carrying reverence and joy.
"By the will of the heavens and the blessings of the eternal flame, I now bind these two souls — King Revan of House Bighart and Lady Seraphine of House Elcrest — as husband and wife, from this day until the end of all days."
The words settled gently, like petals falling from an unseen hand.
Revan turned toward her. Her hands trembled softly in his, her lips curved into a faint, nervous smile. The world blurred around him — the guests, the banners, the music — everything disappeared except the woman standing before him.
"Seraphine," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. "From this moment, I'll never let go of your hand again."
She lowered her gaze, her lashes fluttering. A soft blush bloomed across her cheeks, warm and tender. The priest gestured for them to seal their vows with a kiss.
The hall grew utterly still.
But when Revan leaned in, Seraphine hesitated. Her face dipped shyly, and her golden hair slid forward, hiding her eyes. A hush swept through the guests. For a heartbeat, even Revan froze—then he smiled, gentle and patient, the smile of a man who had waited lifetimes for this woman.
Instead of her lips, he pressed a kiss against her forehead — slow, reverent, full of quiet devotion.
The hall erupted with laughter and applause. Some nobles clapped their hands; others chuckled at the innocent sweetness of it. The old queen herself laughed behind her fan. Even the High Priest smiled.
"Long live the King and Queen of Arata!" a voice shouted.
The cry spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Long live the King and Queen!"
Trumpets blared. Flowers were thrown from the balconies. Dancers spun through the aisles, and music filled every corner of the castle until it seemed even the walls sang with joy.
For that moment, it felt like the world had become light itself.
Evening descended over Arata, soft and amber. The castle's white stone glowed beneath the lanterns, and the great hall had transformed into a sea of warm colors. Only the royal family, the high nobles, and the court officials remained now — close companions sharing laughter over wine and melody.
At the center of the ballroom, King Revan and Queen Seraphine swayed gently to a romantic tune played by the royal orchestra. The music was slow, heartfelt — violins weaving through harp strings like whispers of starlight.
Revan's hand rested lightly at her waist; her head leaned against his chest. The world around them melted into rhythm and warmth. Every sway, every breath, every heartbeat seemed to align perfectly.
"Are you happy?" he asked softly.
Seraphine looked up, her eyes shimmering like dawn. " ammhmm," she whispered.
He smiled — a quiet, unguarded smile. For once, his mind was free of duty, of destiny, of war and fate. For once, he was simply a man holding the woman he loved.
He imagined their future — walking through gardens in spring, hearing her laughter fill the halls, seeing children running down these marble steps. He imagined peace. He imagined forever.
But forever is a fragile thing.
Because just as that thought crossed his mind, the music trembled — a faint, metallic note ringing off-beat.
Then the chandeliers flickered.
And before anyone could react, something came crashing through the ceiling.
The sound was deafening — a shattering roar that split the air. Marble fragments rained down like deadly hail. The guests screamed; the orchestra fell silent. Dust clouded the golden light as the ceiling above the dance floor split open.
Revan's instincts took over. He grabbed Seraphine, shielding her behind him as shards of crystal and stone thundered to the ground. The impact shook the entire hall, and the once-perfect night fell into chaos.
Through the haze and the swirling dust, he could barely make out a shape of man but after using his all seeing devine eyes he saw him.
The guards rushed forward with drawn swords, shouting for formation.
Revan rose slowly, his cloak torn, his crown slightly askew. Seraphine clutched his arm, her eyes wide and trembling.
"What... what was that?"
Revan looked toward the smoking wreckage, jaw tightening, he whispered to himself, it's the Male lead "Martin Maccallam.