Bedchambers and Broomsticks

Bedchambers and Broomsticks

Amy Campbell

“ M arek,” 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.

M arek 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.

Marek ran his fingers over the smooth oak of his bed frame, feeling each grain and knot. The wood was like an old friend, one he had only to cajole into shape. He still had a long way to go, but he could do this. The room buzzed with activity, but Marek tuned it all out, focusing on the rhythm of his own work. He barely glanced at Arcanus's workstation, where the mage was already weaving spells around his creation.

A flash of light caught Marek's eye. Arcanus stood with his hands raised. The bed frame before him shimmered, the wood twisting into shapes that defied natural laws. Marek gritted his teeth and looked away, concentrating on his own work.

Marek focused on the headboard, a large piece of oak he'd already shaped into a basic rectangle. He picked up his chisel and began carving intricate patterns into the wood. He carved a series of intertwined oak leaves, detailed right down to their veins. They would form a flowing, symmetrical design that evoked the strength of Arlenia's forests.

He couldn't help but steal glances at Arcanus's workstation, where the mage was working with enthusiasm. A swirling golden light pulsed around Arcanus's wand as he carved designs into his headboard. It was impressive how quickly he did it, and it made Marek clench his jaw. He knew Arcanus wasn’t simply relying on magic; the mage's artistry was clear in the way he shaped the wood, creating a series of intertwined dragons. The scales of the dragons seemed to gleam like precious metals catching the light, and illusory flames danced from their nostrils, making the scene enchanting.

Magic. It was so unfair .

As the day ended and tools were set down for the night, Marek couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how hard he worked, he was fighting a losing battle against something beyond mere skill—something that sparkled with impossible brilliance just a few feet away from him.

The magic use was profane . Not to be tolerated.

Marek was going to do something about that.

A t the end of the second day, the artisans broke off into groups as before, leaving Arcanus and Marek alone. Marek had made it clear he despised Arcanus and his magic, so the mage didn't even attempt to invite him out for a meal and entertainment.

Which was a shame. Marek was handsome, and Arcanus wouldn't have minded feeling his hands on his body with the same intensity Marek used during his work.

Arcanus sat alone at a small table in the castle's dining hall, pushing around a piece of roasted duck with his fork. The murmurs and laughter of the other artisans echoed around him, but he found no solace in their camaraderie. The tension between him and Marek bothered him, stealing his appetite. With a sigh, he abandoned his meal and made his way back to his quarters.

The castle wing where the artisans were housed was quiet. Arcanus's modest room felt like a cage tonight. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself into sleep. His mind, however, was a whirlpool of thoughts—memories of Marek's intense blue eyes and the feeling of being judged by every traditional artisan in the competition.

He sat up abruptly, deciding that a walk might clear his mind. He slipped on his boots and robe, then quietly opened the door to his room. The hallway stretched before him, lit by flickering sconces. As he stepped out, he noticed a silhouette moving further down the corridor. Tall and broad-shouldered—there was no mistaking it. Marek.

Arcanus hesitated for a moment before deciding to follow. He moved silently, keeping enough distance to avoid detection but close enough not to lose sight.

Marek walked with purpose, his steps echoing softly in the stone hallway. They passed through several turns and finally approached the grand doors of the competition hall. Marek paused for a moment before pushing them open just enough to slip inside.

Arcanus followed. He watched as Marek approached Arcanus's workstation. Hands on hips, the other man studied the bed. The wizard considered stepping out from the shadows and challenging Marek, demanding to know what he was doing. But the wan light revealed a stricken look on Marek's face, and Arcanus didn't feel that it was his place to intrude. So, he watched and waited until Marek finally turned and trudged out, leaving the unfinished beds behind.

T he rhythmic scrape of his chisel against the oak was a comfort that helped Marek focus. He was working on the rails for the bed, shaping them to fit the frame and headboard. Marek had chosen a piece of walnut, its grain a beautiful swirl of dark brown and pale gold. He planned to carve a series of stylized vines, their tendrils twisting and turning, mirroring the design of the oak leaves on the headboard.

The work was demanding, but Marek found peace in it. Each stroke of the chisel felt rewarding. It was a reminder of why he did this, why he poured his heart and soul into his craft. As he carved, his mind wandered back to the previous night, when he'd stood before Arcanus's workstation. He'd been tempted to do something, to sabotage the wizard’s work, to even the playing field. But something had stopped him, something that felt like a whisper of caution, or perhaps a flicker of something else... something he couldn't quite name.

He had to admit, Arcanus was good . His magic was impressive, yes, but it was his artistry that truly captivated Marek. The way he used his magic to enhance the wood, to bring out its natural beauty, was a skill he couldn't deny. Marek, in his own way, was trying to achieve the same thing, using his years of experience and dedication to create something beautiful and lasting. But Arcanus's magic was proof of the gulf that separated them, a gulf that made Marek question everything he believed in.

He pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the flowing lines of the walnut rail. The piece before him was a reminder that true craftsmanship, whether or not magic was involved, was about passion, dedication, and the pursuit of beauty. And that was something he wouldn't let anyone take away from him.

His mind drifted to the looming deadline. The competition was coming to a close, and the mattresses would arrive soon. Marek couldn't afford any more delays. His heart sank as he realized that he'd have to forgo the final touch that would really set it apart. He'd planned to gild the headboard, carefully applying a thin layer of gold leaf to the carved oak leaves. It would have been a bold statement, and a way to showcase his artistry in a new light. But time was a thief, and he had to settle for varnish alone.

A t the end of the day, Arcanus stood back, smiling at the bed he had created. “Perfection,” he murmured, running a hand along the polished wood. It was his finest work—every curve, every enchantment, perfectly placed. The bed didn't just exist ; it breathed a fierce elegance that sang of fairy tales and legends.

His gaze drifted to the other beds in the grand hall, each piece reflecting its creator's soul. They were all beautiful in their own right. But he kept returning to Marek's.

Marek's bed was sheer craftsmanship. There was no magic in Marek's creation, only raw talent and relentless effort.

A sigh escaped his lips. “Why must there be such a chasm between us?” His use of magic had always been a point of contention. But there was so much more he wished Marek could see—beyond the enchantments and spells.

As the artisans milled about, inspecting each other’s work and exchanging pleasantries, the sting of isolation filled Arcanus once more. He wanted to share this moment with someone who understood the heart behind his craft.

Marek's silhouette caught his eye as he walked by, deep blue eyes focused on some unseen point ahead. Arcanus took a step forward, hesitated, then stopped himself. What could he say that wouldn't appear self-serving or insincere? He glanced back at his own bed, then at Marek’s again. Both were masterpieces—different paths leading to the same peak. And in the end, wasn't that what mattered?

“Marek,” Arcanus ventured, taking another step closer. “This has been an excellent contest. And I'd be honored to celebrate with you.”

Marek's lips firmed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. It was a shame, as it ruined a perfectly handsome face. Marek, however, seemed unaware of this as he glared at Arcanus. “What, so you can lord your superiority over me?”

Arcanus blinked. “I… what? No.” He cleared his throat and threw every bit of sincerity he had into his next words. “I truly think the bed you've created is exceptional. And I'd very much like to celebrate with you.” The wizard paused, his face warming. “And these past few days have been lonely.”

But his blatant honesty seemed to chip away at Marek's frost. The other man angled his head as if Arcanus were a strange creature he was trying to figure out. Then Marek nodded. “Let's get a drink, then.”

M arek hesitated as he followed Arcanus out of the castle and towards the nearby tavern. What would people think, seeing him with Arcanus? Would they think he approved of magical artisans?

But, as they entered the tavern, Marek found himself drawn to Arcanus's presence. The mage's green eyes sparkled with joy as he ordered drinks for them both, and Marek couldn't help but admire the way his long fingers wrapped around the mug.

They settled at a table in the corner, away from prying eyes. Marek took a long swig of his ale, trying to ignore the way his breath caught every time Arcanus's knee brushed against his beneath the table.

“I'm glad you agreed to come,” Arcanus said. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, but I wanted someone to share this moment with. We both worked hard and have much to show for it. Your artistry is exceptional.”

A flush crept up Marek’s neck. He wasn't used to compliments, especially not from someone like Arcanus. “I... I appreciate that,” he mumbled, staring down at his drink.

As the night wore on, Marek opened up to Arcanus in ways he never had before, with anyone. He talked about his childhood, his father's passing, and the pressure he felt to carry on the family legacy. The wizard listened intently, his eyes never leaving Marek's face.

For the first time in a long while, Marek didn't feel so alone. He had always been so focused on his work, on proving himself, that he had never taken the time to connect with someone on a deeper level. And yet, here he was, sharing his deepest thoughts and feelings with the one person who worked so differently.

Marek leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on Arcanus. The ale had loosened his tongue, and he found himself genuinely curious. “So, why did you enter the competition?”

Arcanus sighed, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “The other spellcasters see me as a failure.” His lyrical voice was tinged with bitterness. “They think my work is frivolous, that I'm wasting my talents on furniture instead of pursuing more 'important' magical endeavors.”

Marek's brows furrowed in disbelief. “They're idiots, then.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, but he didn't regret it. Arcanus looked up, a flicker of surprise and amusement dancing in his beautiful eyes.

“Are they now?” Arcanus's lips curved into a small smile, warmth seeping into his expression.

Marek nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Your work is incredible, magic or not.”

The wizard chuckled softly. Marek found the sound oddly endearing.

“And you?” Arcanus asked, tilting his head slightly. “Why did you enter?”

Marek took a deep breath. “I have to win,” he whispered, staring into his ale. “Or at least do well enough to gain recognition. Otherwise... I can't afford to keep my woodworking business going.”

Arcanus's gaze softened with understanding. “That's a heavy burden to bear.”

Marek shrugged, trying to mask the vulnerability that threatened to spill over. “It's my father's legacy. I can't let it die.”

The wizard appeared thoughtful, lips pursed. Then, as if he'd come to a decision, he nodded. “We must make certain you win, in that case.”

“What?” Marek blurted, startled by the words. “Why?”

Arcanus smiled. “My reason is… vanity, I suppose. Your reason is important. ”

Marek shook his head. “Your reason is valid, too. I'm sure it's hard, being looked down on like that.” Marek had been guilty of that, too. And while he still felt that magic gave Arcanus an unfair advantage, Marek was seeing more and more of the person behind that power.

“It is, but I know my worth. Even if others don't.” Arcanus suddenly rose. He reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of gold coins, dropping them on the table. “Come on.”

Marek blinked, his alcohol-hazed mind unable to keep up with the spellcaster. “What?”

“You say that quite a bit when you're sloshed,” Arcanus said with a chuckle. “We need to make sure you win.”

“What?” Marek asked again.

The wizard sighed. He offered a hand, and Marek took it, rising to join him. “You and me. Make sure you win .” Arcanus aimed his index finger at Marek, just in case that was unclear.

“But why?” Marek asked, unable to hide his bewilderment that anyone would help him, much less this man.

“Because you should never have to give up your dream,” Arcanus said, the words so simple but so heartfelt.

Marek's breath caught in his throat.

A s 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 would almost be 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 certainly not done,” Arcanus whispered. He grinned and moved over to his workstation, picking up the belt that 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. “And how exactly 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.”

M arek 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 and wanting that 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, especially not 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, I think 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?”

At the question, Arcanus's eyes lit with excitement. He grabbed Marek's hand and tugged him closer to his own bed. “It's not. And I'm thrilled you've asked. I can tell you all about it.” The wizard cleared his throat, dropping Marek's hand. “Sorry. If you want to know. I never get to talk to others about what I do.”

Marek couldn't help but chuckle at Arcanus's enthusiasm. He felt much the same about his own woodworking. “Please, go ahead. Maybe I can learn something from you, even if I don't wield magic.”

“To create something like this,” Arcanus began, voice brimming with joy, “I had to study traditional carpentry first. My father insisted on it. Said I couldn't understand the true essence of crafting if I didn't know how to work with my hands.”

Marek frowned, his skepticism melting into curiosity. “You mean you actually learned carpentry? With tools and everything?”

Arcanus nodded eagerly. “Yes! It was grueling at first. My fingers bled from the splinters and my muscles ached from the sawing and planing. But over time, I appreciated the craft.” He paused, eyes growing distant as if recalling a memory. “There's a rhythm to it, a connection between wood and artisan.”

Marek folded his arms, still processing this revelation. “So, your magic—it's just an extension of that?”

“Exactly,” Arcanus said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Magic doesn't do the work for me. It enhances what I've learned through traditional methods. Think of it like... adding color to a sketch. The sketch is still there, foundational to the work.”

Intrigued, Marek stepped closer to inspect the details in Arcanus's bed frame. “But how do you control it? How do you make sure it doesn't just run wild?”

Arcanus smiled, pleased by Marek's genuine interest. “That's where creativity comes in. Magic is raw energy; it needs direction and purpose. Without me guiding it, shaping it with my vision and skills, it's just potential.” He gestured at a section of the bed where the dragons seemed to come alive. “These wouldn't exist without my imagination giving them form.”

Marek rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So, you're saying that without your craftsmanship and creativity, your magic would be useless?”

“Precisely,” Arcanus agreed. “It takes years of study and practice to master both aspects—traditional carpentry and magical enhancement.” His gaze softened as he looked at Marek's bed once more. “And that's why I respect what you do so much. Your work stands on its own merit, without any magical assistance.”

Marek felt a strange warmth spread through him at Arcanus's words. Before Marek could respond, Arcanus took a deep breath, his expression filled with resolve. “Marek, would you allow me to add a touch of magic to your bed? Just a small enhancement, to highlight the beauty of your craftsmanship. I want you to have the best chance to win.”

Marek hesitated, the offer tempting but confusing. “Why would you do that for me?”

Arcanus stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “Because I believe in your talent, and I want to see your work recognized. Besides, I can't bear the thought of you giving up on your dream.”

The sincerity in Arcanus's voice broke through Marek's defenses. He nodded slowly. “All right. What do we do?”

Arcanus gently took Marek's hand, guiding him to the bed. “Have a seat,” he whispered, his voice breathy.

Marek hesitated for a moment, but the warmth in Arcanus's eyes reassured him. He lowered himself onto the bed, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees. Arcanus stood in front of him, his eyes gleaming with a focused intensity. He reached out, taking one of Marek's hands in his own, their fingers intertwining. The wizard rested his other hand against the bed.

“This is the part where I need your help,” Arcanus murmured. He closed his eyes for a moment, then began to weave his magic. A soft, golden light flowed from his fingertips, mingling with the natural grain of the wood.

“Need my help how? ” Marek asked. “I can’t work magic!”

“You already did,” Arcanus corrected him. “You created this. I need the heart of your creativity to further infuse into your creation.”

“What?” Marek blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” the wizard whispered. “Just hold your vision for the soul of this bed in your mind’s eye.”

The soul of this bed. It made no sense. Marek sighed but did as Arcanus asked. He imagined the bed as he wished it to be…

Carved oak leaves and vines that Marek had painstakingly created began to shimmer, their edges glowing with a soft, golden light. The tendrils of the vines seemed to stretch and twist, reaching out as if they were alive. The bed was becoming the artistic embodiment of Arlenia’s strength and beauty, just as Marek wished.

As the enchantment settled, Arcanus leaned in, his face close to Marek's. “There. Now it's truly extraordinary,” he breathed.

Marek, his gaze fixed on Arcanus, felt the heat in his chest climb. The way Arcanus's emerald eyes held his, the way his breath tickled his cheek, was intoxicating. He couldn't deny the pull he felt, a raw need that had been simmering beneath the surface for days. He leaned in, his hand reaching up to cup Arcanus's cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin.

Their lips met in a kiss that was as tentative as it was urgent. The subtle tang of Arcanus’s magic lingered on Marek’s tongue. He deepened the kiss, seeking more of Arcanus's warmth, his scent, his touch.

He felt Arcanus stiffen for a moment, as if surprised, but then his hands found their way around Marek's waist, tugging him closer. The wizard’s fingers dug into his back, his breath hitching as he responded to the kiss. The press of Arcanus's body against his, the way he leaned into the kiss, filled Marek with a sense of dizzying excitement.

Marek couldn't help himself. The feeling was too strong, too overwhelming. He pulled Arcanus closer, his hand sliding around the back of his neck, pulling him down onto the bed. Arcanus landed with his body half atop Marek, their legs intertwined. The press of Arcanus's thigh against his, the unmistakable sensation of the wizard’s arousal against his own, sent a jolt through Marek.

The kiss deepened. Arcanus's lips parted slightly, allowing Marek deeper access, a soft moan escaping his throat.

A surge of confidence bolstered Marek. He was doing this. He was making Arcanus lose control, just as he was losing control himself. His hand drifted down to the curve of Arcanus's hip, his fingers tracing the line of his waist. He felt the subtle shift of Arcanus's body, the way he leaned into the touch, urging Marek closer. This wasn't a competition anymore.

“Marek.” Arcanus’s voice was a throaty whimper. A plea. “We shouldn’t—the competition?—”

Marek pressed his mouth more insistently against the wizard’s. The competition was important but this… this was something else. And Marek was going to enjoy this perfect, heady moment while he could.

“Forget the competition,” he rumbled. “Right now, all that matters is you and me.”

A rcanus adjusted the robe that covered his bare skin as Marek finished their joint tale. Would the King and Queen order him and Marek to be executed for their audacity? What had they been thinking, to make use of a potential royal bed in such a way? But he hadn't been thinking. Only feeling and enjoying. And it had been so right .

“So, you see, Your Highnesses, that’s how we came to be in this state of undress,” Arcanus finished. Too bad Marek hadn’t been able to finish him , alas.

“ Undress .” Princess Eliora covered her mouth as she laughed, her eyes bright with amusement.

The royals traded long looks, then seemed to reach a silent decision. King Aldric cleared his throat before speaking. “Princess Eliora’s upcoming nuptials to Prince Corvus have filled us with much concern, and it’s our goal that the winning bed be a piece that showcases the ability to bring disparate people together.”

Queen Isolde’s eyes danced, her gaze resting on the bed where Arcanus reclined. “And what better than this bed?” She made a sweeping gesture. “It’s clear you worked on it together. We’ve been watching the work of all the artisans closely, you know.” She crossed her arms, stepping closer as she assessed the work. “Most of the craftsmanship is Marek, certainly, but with a lovely blend of your touches, Arcanus.”

“He does have a lovely touch,” Marek agreed, deadpan.

The Queen clapped her hands. “So, it’s decided. At the celebration this afternoon, we’ll announce the winners.”

“Your collaboration has created something extraordinary,” Princess Eliora said. “This bed has already proven its ability to bring two people together in love. And that’s what I’ll need, to secure a future with Prince Corvus.”

Arcanus's eyes met Marek's once more, seeing reflected there the same relief and joy that surged through him. They had done it— together .

King Aldric nodded in agreement with his daughter's words. “A union of traditional craftsmanship and magical innovation—truly a masterpiece worthy of our princess. And now, we’ll allow you a moment to gather yourselves.” King Aldric headed for the door. His wife and daughter followed, though Eliora aimed a wink at Arcanus and Marek.

As the door closed, Arcanus sagged against the bed. “I can’t believe it. We’re going to live.”

“Not only that,” Marek said as he stepped closer, a grin on his face. “But we’ve won. Together! ” A pleased sigh escaped his lips, then his gaze flicked over Arcanus. “I seem to have left some unfinished business, though.”

Arcanus coughed. “What?”

Marek tugged the robe away, gaze roving to Arcanus’s waist. “I'm a woodworker, after all,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire. “And I'm quite good at what I do.”