Optimism

The White Stag.

In Adam's dimly lit room, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, potions, and the faint, acrid smell of alchemical reactions.

The youth had cleared the center of the room and placed a giant wooden table there. It was cluttered with an array of vials, beakers, and flasks, each containing liquids of various colors.

Strange plants, dried and fresh, lay in neat bundles alongside powders, crystals, and other strange apparatuses.

Adam was wearing a simple tunic and pants, bending over a metal cauldron placed before the table, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

"I hope this one works," he muttered under his breath as he added a pinch of powdered moon roots into the bubbling solution inside the cauldron.

He watched intently as the liquid changed from a dull green to a bright blue. For a moment, hope flickered in his jet-black eyes, but it quickly dashed as the concoction began to sizzle and emit a pungent smoke.