Ryker clenched his fists, exhaling a long breath heavy with resolve. If the system blocks magic and elixirs... then I’ll use my own two hands and my own damn brain.
He turned toward the workshop door and barked an order to his three trusted Orc lieutenants. "Gorg! Thrum! Bork! Get in here!"
The three hulking Orcs marched inside.
"What are your orders, Chief?" Gorg asked.
"I need the sturdiest, smoothest hardwood we have in the storehouse. Grab a few bars of forged iron and some treated leather, too."
Thrum furrowed his heavy green brow. "Wood and iron, Chief? Are we preparing for war?"
"Not a war," Ryker replied, unrolling a sheet of rough parchment onto the workbench. On it, he had drawn a detailed schematic of a wheelchair. "This is for Lady Lyra. You three, grab the materials now.
