Orson heaved his crate of fish down the pier.

It reached almost up to his eyes, and his arms were straining. But Tobias had told him to carry it all the way to the merchant’s ship, and he was determined to make him proud. This was the first time any of the older fishermen had given him his own job, after all, even if it was a small one. He had to prove that he could be something more than a poor, eleven year old orphan boy. That one day, he could be the best fisherman in all of Lunebridge.

Orson stopped, shifting his grip on the crate. He huffed, wishing he had a free hand to wipe the sweat on his forehead. _Just a bit longer_, he told himself. _Just keep going_. But with each step he took, he wobbled a little more.