Heir to the Autumn Court

By Elle Porter

A collection of queer, sordid tales centered around Princeling Fenyr, heir to the throne of Maenym, as they prepare for their upcoming coronation by challenging a legacy of cruelty plaguing their royal lineage. HEIR TO THE AUTUMN COURT takes place in a fae land caught in perpetual harvest season. Each high-heat story centers around the princeling and a different partner, ranging from an aloof minotaur, a stoic warrior from a neighboring land, an ex-lover turned palace guard, to a wild moth fae merchant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Porter
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223611554

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Heir to the Autumn Court

Copyright © 2023 Elle Porter

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Trademarks

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Praise for

HEIR TO THE AUTUMN COURT

Charming, cozy, and unapologetically sexy, HEIR TO THE AUTUMN COURT is a celebration of gender and sexuality that should not be missed.

—Freydís Moon, bestselling author of Heart, Haunt, Havoc

HEIR is a truly unique experience in all the different masks it wears, from erotica, to romance, to court intrigue, to fantasy, and beyond. Definitely a new favorite, and an instant recommendation to anyone who likes bratty high fey, found-family polycules, and some of the best smut I’ve ever read.

—Kellen Graves, author of the Rowan Blood series

About this Book

HEIR TO THE AUTUMN COURT is a collection of sordid tales centered around Princeling Fenyr as they prepare for their upcoming coronation. Taking place in a fae land caught in perpetual harvest season, each high-heat story centers around a nonbinary princeling and a partner of their choosing, including a minotaur, a stoic warrior from a neighboring land, a former lover turned palace guard, and a wild moth fae.

A full list of tags and warnings can be found here.

Table of Contents

The Princeling

and the Bull

and the Guardian

and the Revel

and the Suitor

and the Circle

The Princeling and the Bull

Juniper and cinnamon bark; bergamot and holly oak.

Vezan smelled the princeling as soon as they entered his grove. While ignoring the intrusion entirely was out of the question, he refused to allow even visiting royalty to distract from his duties. The tree rounds would not chop themselves into firewood; the carcasses from his morning hunt still required skinning; and a pair of trousers still needed mending from the last time he’d picked blackberries.

Most high fae avoided the minotaur’s grove when they passed through the Gold Wood. Vezan was rarely roused by their cunning words, nor easily swayed by their bargains. Few creatures of the Autumn Court could say as much, and those who sought him knew which words would beguile him, which bargains were worth striking.

Certainly the princeling of Maenym would not be in need of such services.

As Vezan continued stripping logs against a weathered stump, that strange, alluring scent grew stronger, accompanied by the crunch of leaves and the crack of twigs. When the princeling’s cloaked form finally breached the treeline, Vezan did not meet them with his eyes. He knew it was customary to bow or kneel in the presence of royalty, just as it was customary for wildlings of the Gold Wood to be ignored by the Court. The princeling stopped short once they’d stepped from the thicket, and Vezan wondered if they would simply slink back into the greenery without a proper welcome.

But he was gifted with no such luck; his visitor kept their distance until Vezan split three more logs into firewood, their hesitation seemingly dissolving as they edged further into the clearing.

Though he kept his guard up, Vezan doubted the princeling posed any threat on their own. It was possible they had an envoy of guardsmen lurking out of sight past the treeline, though Vezan was certain he’d have heard their clumsy footsteps scattering the fallen leaves. It was not uncommon for his visitors to bring some level of protection—sellswords, mostly, who were just as clueless about navigating the Gold Wood as most high fae.

After Vezan split the last log and added it to the pile, he propped his axe against the chopping stump. He supposed they’d waited patiently, and that it couldn’t hurt to find out why they’d come all this way. He brushed chips of wood and sawdust from the stump’s surface and took a seat, finally meeting his visitor’s gaze without trepidation.

Vezan knew precisely as much as was necessary about Princeling Fenyr. Born suckling the teat of fae knowledge and revelry, they’d inherited their mother’s arrogance, their father’s cruelty, and the combined beauty of both. Their ascension to the highest seat of the Autumn Court made no discernible difference in Vezan’s life, much less the woods he called home.

The rumors of Fenyr’s beauty—gathered like precious gemstones from their parents—were certainly true. Their braided hair was tucked between their ivory horns like a crown of laurels; their eyes were honeyed like the sunset leaves of the Gold Wood. Vezan wondered what other gossip rang true: if the princeling wore their mother’s arrogance the same way as their braided crown; if they donned their father’s cruelty like a weighted shroud.

With the branching horns on their head, Vezan expected the princeling to approach like a proud stag, yet their posture remained hunched and closed off, more resembling a timid fawn. Vezan tilted his horned head, resting one broad, calloused palm on his thigh; he would have expected their attire to match the Court’s typical palette—fiery reds, burnt orange, venom yellow—but the cloak concealing the princeling’s figure was a rich, midnight blue.

I see a lost princeling has entered my grove.

Fenyr tugged their cloak tighter around their shoulders, their sharp, delicate nose wrinkling as they replied, I am not lost.

Ah, of course, Vezan said airily, gesturing at the gilded-orange shroud of trees surrounding them. How could you be lost when every leaf of the Gold Wood turns at your command?

The wind stilled like a held breath as Fenyr took a step forward, their eyes darting around the clearing. Then they raised their chin, straightened their shoulders beneath their midnight cloak, and said, I seek the Bull of the Gold Wood.

Vezan huffed through his leathery nostrils. I prefer Vezan, he said, and in as much of a formal bow as he could muster, he briefly dipped his horned head. If it pleases you, Your Highness.

It does, Fenyr said, relief threading their voice as they relaxed their grip on their cloak. As they closed the last sliver of space between them, Vezan noticed their gait remained cautious. I was told you were discreet.

Vezan scraped a hoof in the dirt, folding both arms over his hefty chest. Is it mere discretion that brings a princeling so far outside Alwine’s walls?

One reason of many, yes.

I wish to hear the others, Vezan drawled, as I still have much to accomplish before sunlight fades.

Fenyr bowed their head, their tongue darting over their bottom lip as they fidgeted with the clasp of their cloak. Perhaps we could discuss further inside?

Vezan chuckled. Even if the trees could hear you, they would not talk.

I came alone, Fenyr said, lifting their head, but that does not mean no one is listening.

Vezan had to give them credit; the maze of the Gold Wood spanned acres, and though few fae dared to venture to the center where Vezan had built his home, the princeling had managed the journey alone, despite their unimpressive attempt at stealth. And, while he had not sensed others near his grove, it was wise to assume any high fae visitor was imbued with a surveillance charm or a listening spell. That Fenyr also seemed to know his cottage was properly warded against such magic spoke highly of their diligence.

The princeling had clearly done their research, but Vezan couldn’t think of any source for the information outside of the occasional gatherings he hosted in his grove. Those who attended sought the sort of feral debauchery that came with the old ways—primarily drinking far too much wine and fucking beneath the moonlight—and as much as he detested most high fae, the revels provided a worthwhile distraction from his quiet life.

Come inside, then. He towered over them as he rose upon his hooves, and he didn’t miss the way they flinched. With a frown, he turned toward his cottage.

No high fae had ever been permitted inside and it rankled Vezan how easily he’d offered up his home for royal scrutiny. Upon entry, an enormous hearth surrounded by equally tall bookshelves was first to catch the eye. As he felt the princeling’s eyes shift, he wondered what thoughts had transpired in that pretty head of theirs. Would they be surprised that the Bull of the Gold Wood was well-read, or would they simply accuse him of stealing and casually order his execution?

He did not wait for any of those inevitable questions, stepping aside to allow the princeling to shuffle over the threshold so he could shut the door. Then, he strolled into his small kitchen, which was little more than an elbow of smoothstone countertop, a roaring cook hearth, and a pantry for onions and potatoes and salted meat from his hunts.

Does a princeling drink tea? he asked, rummaging through a cabinet for loose leaves and two mugs.

When it pleases them, Fenyr said. At Vezan’s over-the-shoulder raised brow, they coughed behind their fist and added, Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you.

After refreshing the kitchen’s hearth with a few logs, Vezan filled a kettle from a small rainwater barrel and hung it over the revived flame. He caught flashes of the princeling in his peripheral—prim cheeks and a sturdy jaw like a boning knife; the way the den’s fire flickered over their hair like a sunrise over a wheat field; the furrow of their brow, their mouth pinched in a slender, pale line as they studied the contents of his bookshelves.

My apologies if my home is not up to your standards, Your Highness, Vezan said, digging through his cupboard for tea leaves and herbs. I did not anticipate having company.

Fenyr’s mouth softened into a smirk as they turned toward him, their eyes catching a playful glow from the fireplace. Do you ever? they asked, their voice mirthfully teasing as they strolled the length of Vezan’s bookshelf and scanned the slumped shelves with their golden eyes.

I suppose not, Vezan said, returning the princeling’s coy smile before flipping over two clay teacups from the back of his counter. Discovering that they possessed a bit of cheek felt like privileged information—something that would have never made its way into the stories brought by those who attended his revels.

Your home is lovely, Fenyr continued, while Vezan plucked apart black tea leaves and dried orange blossoms. Reminds me of the Court’s snowfall cottages in the north.

Vezan chose not to take offense to the comparison, as he imagined a princeling had little to compare to his simple abode. You have been north?

For Yule, Fenyr said, one shoulder rising in a shrug. But not every year. Sometimes the roads are impassable before we’ve even packed the carriages. Their arms were still crossed over their chest, yet their shoulders relaxed as they retraced their steps along the bookshelf. To be honest, I prefer the dunelands in the far south. I don’t particularly enjoy the cold.

Conveniently, the kettle began to squeal, so Vezan turned his back on the princeling’s beauty and removed it from the flame. He poured steaming water into each cup, then brought both into the den. In Fenyr’s smaller hands the mug was sized more like a bowl, but nothing changed on their face to indicate they were displeased.

It is not about the cold, Vezan said, but all the ways in which to get warm.

At that, Fenyr smiled, wide enough to poke dimples into their cheeks. I see the Bull of the Gold Wood is as wise as they say.

Vezan huffed, shook his head, and gestured to a pair of armchairs and a sofa arranged before the giant hearth. You may sit if you wish, Your Highness.

I do not, Fenyr said in between sips of tea. Wish to sit, that is.

Does my seating displease you?

Not at all, Fenyr said behind their teacup. Their eyes shifted down, as if the contents were suddenly more intriguing than the minotaur they’d traveled all morning to meet. I prefer not to get too comfortable in case you, ah… choose to send me away.

Vezan hummed noncommittally and sipped his tea, finding it to be light on the orange blossom, but Fenyr didn’t seem concerned with it, so he chose not to be either.

As surreal as it was to be standing in the middle of his cottage with the Princeling of Maenym, neither of them speaking as they drank near-flavorless tea, Vezan was surprised at how comfortable it was. The fire crackled pleasantly, and he rather enjoyed catching secret glances of the princeling as they continued peering around his home, soaking up every detail like they’d be tested on it later.

When they’d both slurped their last drops, Vezan returned the teacups to the kitchen. Rinsing could wait, as he was now anxious to find out why Fenyr had come to see him. He was less concerned with finishing his tasks for the day—though in a perfect world, he’d have liked to—having grown suspicious of their intentions, wondering if Fenyr had grown bored of Court intrigue and decided to mess with the lone minotaur of the Gold Wood.

Now then, Vezan said as he resumed standing in the den. Perhaps you would care to reveal the purpose behind your visit, Your Highness.

Fenyr’s face tightened, as well as their grip around their cloak as if they meant to conceal what they wore underneath. As I mentioned before, I was told you were discreet.

Mm. And who told you this?

Even while donning a grimace, Fenyr remained composed. Their voice, however, came out soft and uncertain as they said, "Well, I… might have overheard it from a few of the, ah… Well, I suppose they’re my tutors, but we don’t really– That is, they are practically my age, so it’s not like they are much older than me–"

Your Highness, Vezan said, firm but gentle. If you would kindly speak to the reason for your visit.

Right, Fenyr said, fidgeting for a moment before they dropped their hands again. I need your word that you will not tell anyone I was here, or why.

Vezan thought he was beginning to piece this puzzle together, though the princeling’s clues were few and far between. He ventured a step closer to them, trying not to draw himself too tall, trying to radiate calm instead of run. He didn’t stop until he stood over Fenyr, and was pleased that this time, they didn’t shrink away as he promised, I will tell no one.

Fenyr gazed up at him, and Vezan was surprised to see trust blossom in their eyes, their scent once again filling his nostrils—juniper, bergamot, and the crisp bite of the Gold Wood turning. It suits them, he thought, his eyes dropping to the base of Fenyr’s throat where firelight bounced off a silver clasp, trapping his stare like a ravenous magpie to a gleaming bauble.

What are you hiding, little princeling? he asked, unable to resist drawing a finger up the unguarded seam of Fenyr’s cloak. The material parted only to accommodate his last knuckle, revealing nothing of what lay beneath. He was further emboldened by the fact that not only did Fenyr not shy away from his touch. What need do you have of my discretion? he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest like distant, subdued thunder.

Fenyr’s shoulders rocked as they