Page 30 of Too Many Beds
Amy Campbell
“ Marek,” Arcanus whispered. Honestly, it was almost a whimper, simply because of the way Marek traced kisses up his neck to just beneath his ear. Arcanus wanted nothing more than to give in to that embrace, but… “We shouldn’t—the competition?—”
Marek silenced him with a searing kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of Arcanus's mouth. “Forget the competition,” he growled against Arcanus's lips. “Right now, all that matters is you and me.”
“But you—” Arcanus tried again.
“ Us ,” Marek corrected. Which didn’t make sense, given what Arcanus was going to say, but the wizard let it go. Mostly because of the way the woodworker’s powerful hands were roaming over his body, though Arcanus’s robes got in the way.
“Let me disrobe,” Arcanus suggested, though he hated even those brief moments that robbed him of contact with Marek. He tossed the robe aside, aiming for the decorative bed knob shaped like a dragon’s head. But he missed, and it pooled to the floor. That was fine. It was out of the way.
Marek's calloused hands moved with a determination that made Arcanus shiver. They skimmed over Arcanus's chest, pausing at the delicate curve of his ribs, then traced the length of his arm, sending a jolt of fire through him. He leaned into the touch. Arcanus closed his eyes, the world narrowing to just Marek's presence. He inhaled the scent of pine and sweat that clung to the woodworker, a heady mixture that quickened his pulse. A low groan escaped Arcanus as Marek traced the outline of Arcanus's ribs.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Marek freed himself from his own shirt, the fabric falling to the floor like a discarded shadow. His exposed chest revealed a landscape of muscle and sculpted lines covered by a thick dusting of dark hair. Arcanus's gaze lingered on Marek's chest, tracing the path of the hair as it flowed downward, disappearing beneath his waistband. He reached out, his fingers trailing over the springy curls.
“You're beautiful,” Arcanus whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.
Marek, his eyes locked on Arcanus, leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss that promised more than just pleasure. With a gentle hand, Marek guided Arcanus to lie back on the bed, his gaze never leaving Arcanus's face as he positioned himself between his legs.
The touch of Marek's thighs against Arcanus's sent a jolt of electricity through him. He hissed out a breath, his hands finding their way to Marek's shoulders, pulling him closer.
“I can’t wait to explore all of your hidden knots,” the woodworker murmured as his fingers traced a path down Arcanus’s chest. Marek’s eyes flicked down toward the wizard’s small-clothes, a smile curling his lips.
“I hope you’ll find them pleasing.” Arcanus shivered as Marek’s hand drifted lower, brushing the juncture of the wizard’s thighs.
“I will, so long as it pleases you ,” the other man rumbled. He tugged the small-clothes down, grinning as Arcanus was bared to him.
Arcanus's breath caught in his throat as Marek's insistent lips found their way to the sensitive head of his cock. A soft moan escaped Arcanus, his body arching against the intense pleasure. Marek's tongue, a playful, teasing flame, circled the sensitive skin. The sensation was unlike anything Arcanus had ever experienced, a dizzying mixture of heat, pleasure, and a raw, primal need.
With a gasp, Arcanus’s hips bucked against Marek's touch, a wave of need washing over him. Marek's hands moved lower, grasping at his hips, the woodworker’s thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh. Arcanus trembled, surrender coursing through him. The room seemed to narrow, the world outside fading away until all that remained was the heat of Marek's body against his, the insistent rhythm of his tongue, the way those clever fingers traced the skin of Arcanus’s thighs.
“Marek,” Arcanus rasped. Marek's dark eyes met his, a searing glance that sent shivers down his spine. Arcanus couldn't think, only feel, only experience the raw need that pulsed between them.
The door flew open with a resounding bang. A royal herald strode in, then abruptly halted, his eyes widening at the tableau before him. So startled was he that he forgot his usual announcement, leaving the royal family to file in without fanfare.
Marek froze, a look of startled panic on his face. He scrambled to reclaim his clothing, fingers fumbling with the fabric. In his haste, he stumbled upon Arcanus's discarded robe, tossing it towards the wizard. Arcanus remained where he was. There was no way he could put on his robe and maintain any semblance of dignity at this point. He allowed it to drape over him like a flimsy blanket.
“Announcing the arrival of His Majesty, King Aldric, Her Majesty, Queen Isolde, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Eliora!” the herald proclaimed belatedly, his voice laced with confusion, as if he'd just intruded on a strange dream.
The royal family took in the scene with amusement and secondhand embarrassment. Heat flooded Arcanus's cheeks. What did this mean for Marek and the competition? And what fate awaited him ? Their lost inhibitions had doomed them both, surely. He exchanged a long look with Marek, who met his gaze with a flicker of something that could only be interpreted as regret that they'd been interrupted, not remorse for their actions.
This would cost Marek everything. And Arcanus, now too fond of the woodworker to allow that, knew he had to act. He cleared his throat and propped his head up with one arm as he lounged on the bed, attempting to project an air of relaxed composure. “You’re probably wondering how we got into this situation.”
King Aldric raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Indeed, we are.”
Queen Isolde stepped forward, her gentle gaze sweeping over the two men. “This was a demonstration, was it not?”
A… what? Arcanus blinked, his foggy brain slowly processing the Queen's very obvious statement. “The Queen has a most astute mind.”
“What?” Marek hissed, confusion evident in his voice.
“Just go with it,” Arcanus murmured, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “How better to demonstrate the superiority of this bed than to show how it brings two who are so different together as one?”
Princess Eliora's eyes lit with hope. “I think we’ve found our winner.”
The King crossed his arms. “Judgement will wait. We must hear how you ended up in this… predicament .”
T hree 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 from that land. The land of Aethel .” She sniffed, her voice dripping with disapproval. “We’ve had a slumbering animosity for decades, but now it seems they've decided to finally make peace. Imagine, a princess from our land, marrying a prince from that place. Prince Corvus, I believe, is his name. Apparently, in Aethel they value their artisans almost as much as they value competition. The King and 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.
He had to win. Not just for the honor, but for his future.
A t 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 convince any of 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 the artist , wasting your magic on such frivolous pursuits.” He tsk ed, 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 that I've been 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 goes a 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.
M arek 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 trousers before 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.
“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.
A rcanus 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 other competitors, who saw him not just as a rival but as a cheater. Someone who used shortcuts and magic to make up for what they perceived 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.
T hree 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.
He reached for a sturdy piece of oak, a dark, rich piece of wood he'd hand-selected for its beautiful grain pattern. Marek had planned this bed on his travels, sketching out its design, and knew this oak was the perfect material for a solid foundation. He began by carefully milling the oak, using his hand plane to bring it to the exact thickness and dimensions he needed. The sweet scent of freshly cut wood filled the air as he worked.
The passage of time blurred as Marek lost himself in the task, each stroke of the plane a step closer to his vision. But it was hard to ignore the occasional flash of light and the soft hum of magic emanating from Arcanus’s workstation.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marek saw Arcanus raise a slender wand, its tip glowing with a soft amber light. Still humming that infernal tune from earlier, he moved the wand over the surface of a piece of oak. The wood, bathed in the wand's glow, yielded. The air around Arcanus whispered with a faint energy, the oak slowly conforming to his will, smoothed with a grace that seemed almost effortless.
“Is that supposed to impress us?” Marek muttered, his deep voice barely audible over the din of the workshop.
Arcanus glanced over, a smile playing at his lips. “Jealousy doesn't suit you, Marek.”
“ Hard work suits me,” Marek snapped, keeping his gaze fixed on his own piece. Arcanus’s magic-infused craftsmanship held an allure Marek couldn't deny. But it also represented everything he stood against—the idea that shortcuts could rival true skill and dedication.
Arcanus waved his hand again, and a piece of wood suitable for a bedpost took the place of the wizard’s current milling prospect. “Magic is just another tool.”
Marek grunted in response, unwilling to be drawn into an argument. It was best to focus on his own work. Despite his resolve to ignore Arcanus, Marek couldn't help but steal glances at the wizard's work. The bed was taking shape, though not as quickly as one might imagine. Didn’t he just have to wave that wand, and a beautiful bed would appear?
But there was no time to wonder. Marek had a job to do. He picked up a plane and began smoothing the surface of a headboard panel.
A rcanus's bed was taking shape slightly faster than the other artisans’, which earned him glares all around. What the others didn't understand, though, was that the magic only gave him the rudimentary structure.
Magic, by itself, was not creative. Without the guidance of a caster such as Arcanus, magic would do a slipshod job of creating furniture. But what Arcanus did, besides ensuring that every piece fit together perfectly, was to hone the design further to allow his creativity to ascend to new levels, adding subtle details that infused his creations with unique elements.
At the end of the long first day, King Aldric's steward called for a break. Tools clattered to a stop, and artisans wiped sweat from their brows. Arcanus stretched his arms, feeling the day's tension ease away. He glanced around, noting the clusters of artisans forming, their voices blending into a chorus of camaraderie.
Genevieve and Damon exchanged animated banter about their designs. Alistair shared a hearty laugh with a crafter named Thalia, who mimicked some exaggerated carving motions. Arcanus's gaze lingered on them for a moment, wishing he could share such feelings with other magical artisans.
He turned back to his workstation, where the beginnings of a bed frame stood. The wood gleamed under the enchanted light orbs hovering above.
Marek caught his eye. The broad-shouldered carpenter stood alone, his deep blue eyes scanning the room with an expression that hovered between indifference and longing. Arcanus approached Marek without thinking, driven by an impulse he couldn't quite name.
“Seems like everyone’s found their little group,” Arcanus remarked softly.
Marek looked up, surprised. “Guess so.” His voice was gruff.
Arcanus gestured to Marek's bed frame—a sturdy structure that would be lovely upon completion, he was sure. It was far from finished, but it was a solid start. “Your work is impressive.”
Marek's shoulders stiffened at the compliment. It wasn't the reaction he had hoped for. Marek's piercing gaze flicked over Arcanus’s work, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Impressive? Coming from someone who relies on magic , that means less than a sheep’s fart.”
The words stung more than Arcanus cared to admit. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed. “Magic is just another tool, Marek. It doesn’t replace skill or creativity.”
Marek’s jaw tightened, and he gestured to his own spread of tools. “Tools are supposed to assist , not do the work for you.”
Arcanus struggled to keep his voice even. “You think my magic makes it easier? That it takes away from the effort I put in?”
Marek paused, meeting Arcanus’s gaze with an intensity that was almost challenging. “I think it gives you an unfair advantage,” he said slowly, each word heavy with conviction. “True craftsmanship comes from hard work and dedication.”
The accusation hung in the air like a thick fog. Arcanus bit back a retort, knowing that anything he said would only escalate the situation. Instead, he took another steadying breath and tried to convey his thoughts with calm.
“You misunderstand my magic,” Arcanus began. “It doesn’t replace my effort; it enhances my vision. My hand and my heart guide every spell I cast.”
Marek's eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing Arcanus’s words. For a moment, the tension between them seemed to waver.
Arcanus cleared his throat. “Look, it's been a long day. Whatever you think of me, I thought perhaps we could take a meal together?” He raised his brows, hoping for an endearing look.
It didn't work. Marek's scowl deepened, and he shook his head. “I'd rather be alone.” The other man whirled and hurried away. Arcanus watched him go, shaking his head.
Marek hadn't slept well, his mind full of the cheating mage who, he was sure, would win the contest simply because of his magic. How could he, or any of the others, compete with that?
The grand hall loomed as he walked in, the other artisans already at work. He took a deep breath, the scent of sawdust grounding him as he made his way to his station.