Page 62 of Too Many Beds

“You're on the list,” said the second guard finally. “Follow me.”

Marek fell in step behind the guard, his boots echoing on the stone path as they walked through manicured gardens and past grand fountains. The sheer opulence made him feel like an outsider, but he straightened his back and set his jaw.

They entered a vast hall where other artisans were already setting up their tools and materials. Marek found an empty workstation and began unpacking his satchel, laying out his sketches.

As he assessed the tools and supplies already at his area, another man arrived at the workstation next to him. Marek glanced up, ready to introduce himself, but his breath caught. The man had long, raven-black hair tied back in a loose ponytail and striking emerald eyes that sparkled with intelligence.

“Hello,” Marek began, but his voice trailed off as he noticed the tools the man unpacked. A wand, vials filled with swirling elements, and small levitation orbs glinted in the light.Magic-user.The word burned in his mind. He'd always held strong feelings about magic in creative arts—it felt like cheating, an affront to the honest labor and skill honed through years of practice. His father had taught him that true craftsmanship came from sweat and muscle, not from waving a wand.

“I’m Arcanus,” the newcomer said, offering a hand with a charming smile. “And you are?”

Marek forced himself to shake Arcanus’s hand. “Marek,” he replied curtly, then turned back to his workbench without another word.

Arcanus didn't seem to notice Marek's reaction—or if he did, he chose not to comment on it. Instead, he began arranging his magical paraphernalia, humming softly under his breath. Marek's jaw tightened.Magic has no place in this competition. Craftsmanship should be about raw talent and hard work.He gritted his teeth, trying to push away thoughts of Arcanus's enchanting eyes.

He didn't need distractions—especially not from someone who used shortcuts in their work. Arcanus's tools glowed softly as he prepared them, each item imbued with a purpose Marek couldn't understand nor wanted to. The sight grated on him like sandpaper on fine grain.

With a final exhale, Marek resolved to keep his distance. The competition was about proving himself through skill and dedication—values instilled in him since childhood. He didn't need magic clouding his judgment or undermining his principles. No matter how handsome Arcanus was, Marek wanted nothing to do with him.

Arcanus was accustomed to other spellcasters looking down on him for his work. After all, he should battle dragons and tame phoenixes with his power, not create something as mundane as furniture.

He'd hoped that his arrival at the castle for the bed-making competition would find him in company that appreciated his love of woodworking, even though his tools and methods were unusual. Instead, he found only scorn from the othercompetitors, who saw him not just as a rival but as a cheater. Someone who used shortcuts and magic to make up for whattheyperceived as a lack of skill.

Arcanus was determined not to let that get to him. Let them think whatever they wished. What mattered was that in his heart, he knew the amount of skill and training his craft required.

His thoughts drifted through the air like dust motes caught in a beam of sunlight. He let his fingers trace the delicate patterns of the wood before him, feeling the warmth and texture as if it could ground him, anchor his chaotic mind.

Then the grand doors creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. Arcanus looked up to see King Aldric and Queen Isolde enter. The King's presence filled the space, surveying the room with an authoritative air. The Queen followed closely, her gentle smile softening the King’s sternness.

“Artisans,” King Aldric's voice resonated through the hall, “we are honored to have such talent gathered here for this noble competition.”

Arcanus straightened, feeling a spark of pride despite himself. He caught Marek's eye for a fleeting moment, and saw the same tension and anticipation reflected there.

Queen Isolde stepped forward. “We seek to find a bed worthy of our daughter, Princess Eliora, for her upcoming wedding. This is not just about comfort or aesthetics; it must embody the spirit and strength of our kingdom.”

The King nodded in agreement. “You have three days to complete your work. At the end of that time, we will evaluate each piece based on craftsmanship, creativity, and how well it captures the essence of Arlenia.”

Three days?Anxiety washed over Arcanus. He’d expected having more time to perfect every detail.

Queen Isolde smiled as she looked around at each artisan. “Remember that this competition is not merely about winning, but about showcasing your unique talents.”

Arcanus drew in a deep breath, letting her words sink in. Unique talents—his magic-infused craftsmanship might be seen as an asset here rather than a shortcut.

King Aldric's voice rang out once more. “You may begin immediately. Use this time wisely and may the finest creation win.”

As the royal couple turned to leave, a renewed sense of determination flared within Arcanus. He would pour every ounce of his skill into this project, not just to win, but to validate his artistry once and for all. He glanced over at Marek again and saw that same fire in his rival's eyes.

The hall buzzed back to life as everyone set to work with renewed vigor. Arcanus rolled up the sleeves of his robe and reached for his tools, ready to turn imagination into reality.

Three days. That was a blink of the eye, in terms of the time to create something that Marek hoped would have heirloom quality, a bed that generations would enjoy. He had hoped for so much more time.

He surveyed the grand hall, noting how each artisan had already begun their work. Chisels clinked against wood. Sawdust floated like lazy snowflakes in the air. Determination settled in his bones as he took stock of his competition.

To his right, Genevieve moved with elegance, her hands gliding over polished wood. Her amber eyes never wavered from her work. Across the room, Damon sang a bawdy tune as he planed a piece of driftwood.

Alistair worked methodically. He laid out a variety of finely honed tools with surgical precision. Karia, a force unto herself, sketched bold designs on parchment. Her platinum blonde hair was tied back tightly. Marek knew her work exuded an avant-garde flair, breaking traditional norms with audacious lines and unexpected curves. She was, he thought, the one to beat.

Marek returned his focus to his own task, visualizing the bed he intended to craft. It would embody the strength and resilience of his beloved homeland.

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