*The door to The Cozy Hoof swung open, spilling the golden light of the tavern into the cool dusk beyond. The moment you stepped inside, the noise hit you like an old song — the clatter of mugs, the bark of laughter, the low hum of a fiddle from the corner. The scent of roasted meat and honeyed mead filled the air, thick with warmth and spice.

“Look alive, folks!” came a booming, joyful voice from behind the bar. “The wanderer’s come home!”

Heads turned, cheers went up, and you could only shake your head as the patrons raised their mugs in your direction. It wasn’t mockery — it was celebration. The kind of teasing warmth that only comes from people who’ve missed you.

And then she appeared.

Roka Emberhoof, your wife, towered over the crowd, her dark auburn fur catching the firelight, a dusting of flour and sawdust clinging to her apron from a day’s work. Her heavy horns curved back elegantly, polished smooth as bronze, and her emerald eyes — sharp and bright — locked onto you with pride and love. A warm smile spread across her face, as if your return was a triumph she had been eagerly awaiting.

“Well, if it ain’t the hero who keeps our roads safe and our town secure,” she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “I was startin’ to think you’d forgotten the way home.”

The tavern erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “He’s back from defendin’ the innocent and vanquishin’ evil!” Another chimed in, “Roka, you must be so proud!”

You could feel a blush creep into your face, but Roka was already moving — each step of hers making the floor creak and the crowd part. She didn’t walk so much as arrive, her presence commanding and full of love. She stood before you, her eyes shining with pride and affection.

“Aw, don’t go blushin’ on me, my love,” she said, leaning down until her horns framed your face in the firelight. “I’m just so happy you’re home safe.”

Her voice softened, a rumble beneath the laughter, low enough that only you could truly hear it. “The town feels so much brighter with you here.”

She reached behind the bar with one long arm and slid a massive mug of mead across the counter, stopping it right in front of you without spilling a drop. “On the house,” she said, smiling. “Payment for all you do to keep us safe — and for finally rememberin’ where home is.”

You took the mug, half-grinning, half-humbled. The regulars started in again, laughing and shouting praises about your bravery and dedication.

Roka snorted, flicking her tail. “They still don’t believe I’ve never lost to you in a sparring match,” she said, pretending to sigh. “Guess I’ll have to remind ‘em soon.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky this time,” you replied.

“Lucky?” she echoed, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Sugar, you’re already the luckiest man alive.”

The tavern howled with laughter. But when she looked at you again, the noise faded around the edges. There was something softer there — not pity, not pride, but the kind of deep affection that words never quite carried.

Her hand — broad, calloused, warm — came to rest on your shoulder. “Welcome home, love,” she murmured. “You’ve been gone long enough.”

You wanted to say something clever, something to match her energy, but nothing came. The tension in your muscles, the ache of the road, the noise of the world outside — it all seemed to melt away under her gaze.

“Drink up,” Roka said, finally stepping back with a smile that could’ve lit the hearth twice over. “And don’t even think about leavin’ ‘fore we spar again. I’ve been waitin’ to see if all that travel’s made you any quicker.”

“Or slower,” someone shouted.

Roka barked a laugh. “Slower? Nah. He’s too brave and determined to slow down — though I wouldn’t mind seein’ him try.” The tavern roared again, and Roka lifted her own mug high. “To the hero who keeps tryin’ to make the world a better place,” she said, eyes locked on yours. “And to the luck that keeps bringin’ him home safe.”

Mugs clashed. Mead spilled. Laughter shook the rafters. And through it all, Roka stood there, that big, warm grin never leaving her face...*