Page 61 of Too Many Beds

Three months earlier, Marek stood in his small workshop, sanding the rails of a rocking chair. The motion of the sandpaper against the smooth wood was a comforting rhythm, a dance he knew by heart. The chime of the shop's bell announced the arrival of a customer, and Marek looked up to see Mrs. Tilda beaming at him.

“Marek, my dear! The chair is absolutely stunning, just as you promised.” She pointed to another chair that waited nearby, ready to be collected.

Marek wiped the sweat from his brow. “A pleasure as always. I'm glad to hear the caning work is to your liking.”

“Oh, it's better than I could have imagined!” she exclaimed, running her hands over the woven pattern. “But that's not the only reason I've come today. Have you heard the news?”

Marek's brow furrowed in confusion. “News? I'm afraid I've been so focused on my work, I've been a bit out of the loop.”

Mrs. Tilda's eyes widened with excitement. “Why, the royal competition, of course! The Princess is to be wed, and the King and Queen are seeking the finest artisans in the land to craft the perfect bed for the new royal couple. You know, they’re marrying her off to a prince fromthatland. The land ofAethel.” She sniffed, her voice dripping with disapproval. “We’ve had a slumbering animosity for decades, but now it seems they've decided tofinallymake peace. Imagine, a princess fromourland, marrying a prince fromthatplace. Prince Corvus, I believe, is his name. Apparently, in Aethel they value their artisans almost as much as they value competition. The Kingand Queen are hoping this royal wedding, and the competition for the perfect bed, will show them we have nothing but good intentions.”

She prattled on with more related gossip, but Marek’s mind wandered. A royal competition? The opportunity was unprecedented, but did he have any hope of winning? Arlenia, the kingdom he called home, was renowned for its rich cultural heritage and skilled artisans. To win such a prestigious commission would be a life-changing opportunity, a chance to prove his talent on a grand stage.

As Mrs. Tilda bade him farewell, Marek considered his options. His workshop had been struggling financially, and the cost of materials and upkeep was becoming more than he could shoulder. Winning this competition could be the key to continuing with the work he loved—the only thing that truly gave him purpose.

Hehadto win. Not just for the honor, but for his future.

At about the same time, Arcanus stood in his workshop, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he guided the dance of wood and magic. He envisioned a grand dining set, one that would captivate the eye. He'd already shaped the table legs with his hands, but he used a touch of magic to bring the intricate, vine-like pattern trailing up the legs to life. The tabletop was already laid out, a classic expanse of smooth, polished wood.

Arcanus paused, stepping back to admire his creation. When assembled, the dining set would radiate an air of whimsy and elegance. He knew it would be the perfect addition to any lordling’s home.

If only he could convinceanyof them to buy magicked furniture.

But the time would come, a time when they would see his genius at blending magic and woodworking skill. It wasn’t lazy or an abomination or any of the other myriad accusations Arcanus faced on a daily basis.

One day, they would see it for the art it was.

A sharp rap preceded the door to his workshop swinging open. A lanky figure strode in, his dark robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. Arcanus’s brow furrowed as he recognized the newcomer.

“Khadrius,” he said, his voice tinged with barely concealed annoyance. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Khadrius surveyed the room, his gaze resting on the enchanted furniture with a sneer. “Ah, Arcanus, always theartist, wasting your magic on such frivolous pursuits.” Hetsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Arcanus crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “If there's a point to your visit, I'd appreciate if you got to it. I have work to do.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Khadrius waved a dismissive hand. “I simply wanted to inform you thatI'vebeen invited to perform at the Princess’s upcoming nuptials.” A smug grin spread across his face. “Seems the royal family has recognized my talents, while yours remain hidden in this...wood shop.” With a flourish, Khadrius produced a flyer and tossed it in Arcanus’s direction. “And there's some sort of competition about a bed, if you're interested.”

Arcanus caught the flyer, his fingers tightening around the edges as he held Khadrius's gaze. “Thank you for the information,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I'll keep it in mind.”

Khadrius chuckled, the sound grating on Arcanus's nerves. “Don't strain yourself too much, Arcanus. A little magic goesa long way, and all those fancy carvings might give you a headache.”

With a final, mocking nod, Khadrius turned and swept out of the workshop, leaving Arcanus alone with his thoughts and the flyer in his hand. He could practically feel the smugness radiating from Khadrius's retreating figure.

Arcanus swallowed, staring at the words on the parchment. Winning the competition might legitimize his hard work, silence the scorn of wizards like Khadrius, and perhaps even convince those snobbish lordlings to see the merit in his furniture. It was a chance to prove himself, to gain the recognition he deserved.

“I’m going,” he whispered.

Marek had never traveled to Galadorn, the largest city in Arlenia, and its sheer size overwhelmed him. Stepping off the cart, he found himself amidst a labyrinth of bustling streets and towering buildings. Golden spires reached for the sky, vibrant banners fluttering in the breeze. He adjusted the strap of his leather satchel to keep it from digging into his ribs. Inside lay his sketches and designs, dreams captured on parchment.

“All right, Marek,” he muttered to himself. “You can do this.”

Navigating through the throngs of people felt like wading through a river current. The scents of fresh bread, roasting meats, and exotic spices mingled in the air, making his stomach churn. He caught sight of the grand structure in the distance; the royal palace, its gleaming marble walls seeming to glow under the afternoon sun. He took a deep breath and headed towards it, his strides purposeful, despite the butterflies in his stomach.

The palace gates loomed ahead, guarded by soldiers in gleaming armor. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousersbefore approaching them. One of the guards eyed him up and down. “State your business.”

“Marek,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I'm here for the bed-making competition for the royal wedding.”

The guard nodded and gestured for another to check a list. Moments felt like hours as Marek waited, his gaze drifting to the ironwork on the gates, memorizing the details.

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