RED HOOD ✔

20: The Weight of Strength

The sun was beginning to dip low, casting long shadows over the courtyard. I stood in the center of the circular arena, my breath steady as I faced the training dummies lined up in front of me. My muscles ached from the day's earlier sessions, but I couldn't afford to slow down. Not now. Not when everything I cared about was slipping through my fingers.

I drew my sword, the familiar weight of the blade grounding me as I swung it in slow, controlled arcs. The repetitive motion helped clear my mind, each strike focusing my thoughts on the task ahead. Every movement was deliberate, meant to hone my skills to a razor's edge. I couldn't afford to fail again. Not when Marshall was still out there, and not when Joshua was still carrying the weight of his brother's death.

The metal of the blade rang out as it collided with the dummy's frame, sending a jolt through my arm. I steadied myself, adjusting my stance. My body was already familiar with the motions—an instinct, almost. The rhythm, the precision, the strikes—these were all second nature to me now. But they weren't enough. I needed more. More power, more speed, more control. More than I had ever had before.

I swung again, harder this time. The feeling of the blade slicing through the air, the force of it cutting deep into the target, was cathartic. It was the only thing that made sense to me now. The only thing that could quiet the gnawing guilt inside. But it wasn't enough.

I paused to catch my breath, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My hands were trembling now, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what lay ahead. I couldn't keep relying on others. I couldn't afford to care. The more I cared, the more people I lost.

"Vincent."

The voice cut through the air, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned to find Joshua standing at the edge of the arena, his posture stiff, his eyes downcast. He looked... different. Bruised. Battered. His clothes were torn in places, his face marked with cuts and dirt. It looked like he had been training as well.

I lowered my sword, the familiar tension in my shoulders easing just slightly. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my tone rougher than I intended.

Joshua hesitated, his gaze flickering to the ground before he met my eyes. His lips were pressed into a tight line, but I could see the anger and pain behind his expression. "Training," he said simply, though his voice was strained. "I need to get stronger."

I took a step forward, my concern rising. "Joshua—"

"I'm not a child, Vincent." His words were sharp, cutting through my thoughts. "I need to fight. I need to get stronger if I'm going to stop him."

I took in the bruises on his face and the blood smeared across his hands. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white from the force he was using. He had been pushing himself too hard.

I couldn't help but feel a flash of guilt. He was doing this because of me. Because I hadn't been able to protect Mitchel. But I couldn't let him do the one thing he was aching for.

"You're not ready for this," I said, my voice low, more of a warning than an instruction.

He met my gaze, defiance flaring in his eyes. "And you are?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered, and for a moment, I couldn't find the words. I wasn't ready. I would never be ready. He was right. But that wouldn't stop me. It couldn't.

"I'm fine," I said finally, my voice quiet but firm. "Go home, Joshua. You don't need to do this."

Joshua shook his head, the anger in his eyes flaring again. "You don't get to tell me what I need, Vincent." He took a step forward, his body language hard, every inch of him radiating the same grief and anger he had a month ago.

"I'm not going to sit back and wait for you to fix everything," he continued. "It was my brother—my brother that Marshall killed."

I clenched my jaw. "And that's even more reason why I have to be the one to do this. Your brother's last task for me was to make sure you were safe. I'm doing this to protect you. To protect everyone."

He scoffed, his voice full of bitterness. "You think you're the only one who can fight? The only one who can make things right?" He took a breath, his voice quieting. "I'm not afraid, Vincent."

I looked at him, his brokenness raw and painful to see, but there was something in his eyes that I recognized—determination. The same fire that had burned in me when I was his age. But it was too dangerous. He didn't understand.

"And that's why I can't let you come with me. I am terrified right now. Fear keeps you cautious, stops you from making mistakes. The hurt is still too raw for you, Josh. You're not ready," I repeated, my voice firmer this time.

Joshua looked at me, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He swallowed, but there was no hesitation in his eyes when he spoke next. "I'm not going to let myself be weak. Not anymore."

I felt the tension between us, thick and suffocating. He was still a kid, but he had suffered far too much. But I couldn't let him. Mitchel definitely wouldn't.

I took a step back, my gaze hardening. "Go back to the base, Joshua. You're not going to change anything by getting yourself killed."

His face hardened, the defiance never leaving him. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the training arena once more.

I stood there for a moment, watching him go, my heart heavy with the weight of his words. The path ahead was getting darker, and I wasn't sure if I was ever the right person to lead anymore.

But I couldn't stop. The fact that I was in this position meant I wasn't allowed to stop.

Not like this.

Not yet.