Page 66 of Too Many Beds

As the pair slipped through the shadows toward the crafting hall, Arcanus couldn't help the giddy, effervescent feeling that filled his chest. He might not fight dragons or save kingdoms, but he could use his abilities for good. He would help Marek, and that wouldalmostbe as good as winning himself.

The castle hallways lay hushed under the moonlight, their footsteps barely more than whispers on the stone floor. As they approached the crafting hall, Marek's usual confident stride had a slump to it, a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes.

Arcanus pushed open the doors, the large wooden panels groaning as they swung inward. The hall was empty, completely void of the creations that had filled it just hours before.

“Where are they?” Marek’s voice was low, the defeat in it ringing loud. He stared at the vacant space where his masterpiece had stood.

Arcanus frowned, his gaze sweeping the room as if expecting to see hidden compartments where the beds might be stashed. “They’ve been moved,” he mused aloud, running a hand through his raven-black hair. “They must have taken them to the royal bedchamber for tomorrow's judging.”

Marek shook his head, his shoulders slumping further. “It makes sense. They moved them after we were supposed to be finished.” His face fell. “That's it. We're done.”

“We're most certainlynotdone,” Arcanus whispered. He grinned and moved over to his workstation, picking up the beltthat held his arcane crafting tools. Then he bent down and picked up a few loose wood shavings.

“What are you doing?” Marek asked.

Arcanus held the wood shavings between his fingers, feeling the lingering energy from his creation. “I'm going to figure out where they’ve taken the beds.”

Marek watched, skepticism etched into his features. “Andhowexactly are you planning to do that?”

“Simple,” Arcanus replied, his lips curving into a playful smile. “These shavings are attuned to my bed. They carry a trace of its essence.” He closed his eyes, concentrating on the subtle hum of magic within the fragments of wood.

With a gentle flick of his wrist, he murmured an incantation. The shavings glowed faintly before rising from his hand and drifting toward the doorway. Arcanus opened his eyes and saw Marek’s expression shift from doubt to tentative curiosity.

“Follow me.” Arcanus headed after the floating wood shavings.

They tiptoed through the castle corridors with the shavings acting as a guide, leading them up grand staircases and down long hallways. The shavings led them to a pair of doors at the end of a corridor.

“This is it,” he said quietly.

Marek stepped forward, pushing open one of the doors with a gentle creak. The room beyond was opulent, draped in silks and golds that shimmered in the moonlight filtering through tall windows. And there they were—seven beds created by the artisans, lined up for inspection.

So many beds, and each of them magnificent. Arcanus couldn't help but grin at the craftsmanship on display. They were glorious. He glanced at the other man. “Let's see to your bed.”

Marek stood in the royal bedchamber, his eyes fixed on the array of beds lined up for judging. The warmth of Arcanus's body, so close to his own, sent a jolt of awareness through him, a subtle tremor of anticipation andwantingthat he couldn't quite explain.

Marek's gaze settled on his own masterpiece. The bed he had poured his heart and soul into now seemed insignificant next to the others, especially Arcanus's. The spellcaster’s bed glowed with an ethereal light, its embellishments almost too perfect to be real. The fire-breathing dragons seemed to light up the room. Marek clenched his jaw, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach.

“I was a fool to enter this competition,” he muttered under his breath.

Arcanus turned towards him, eyes bright with curiosity. “What did you say?”

Marek shook his head, trying to hide the wave of self-doubt crashing over him. “Nothing.”

Arcanus stepped closer to Marek's bed, running a hand over the carved oak frame. “This is beautiful work, Marek.”

Marek scoffed, unable to mask his bitterness. “Beautiful?It's nothing compared to what you and the others have made. Look at it—ordinary.”

Arcanus's touch lingered on the smooth wood. “I see strength here. I see dedication and skill honed over years of hard work.” He met Marek's eyes, intense sincerity etched in every line of his face.

Marek looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions. He had never been good at accepting compliments, especiallynot from someone like Arcanus. “You don't have to patronize me.”

“I'm not patronizing you,” Arcanus replied softly. “Your craftsmanship speaks volumes about who you are. It’s magnificent.”

Marek let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn't matter how much effort I put in if it's not enough to win.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying more vulnerability than he intended.

Arcanus placed a reassuring hand on Marek's shoulder. “Winning isn't everything. You've created something with your own hands, something that will outlast this competition.” He smiled warmly. “And for what it's worth,Ithink it's extraordinary.”

Marek needed those words. He almost—almost—leaned in and kissed the wizard. But he reined himself in, allowing only a tight smile. “You said your magic takes skill.” He paused, hesitant, as he decided how to phrase the question without sounding like a judgmental idiot. “But I don't understand how that is. From my perspective, it seems like magic does everything for you. But that's not really the case, is it?”

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