one | 01.

WARRIORS.

    The mid-afternoon sunlight poured into the drawing room, casting long, golden rays across the polished wood floors and delicate furnishings.

Mary Bennet's fingers moved deftly over the ivory keys of the pianoforte, the notes cascading like a soft, steady stream, filling the space with a serene, almost hypnotizing melody.

Her eyes, an intimidating icy blue, were fixed on the sheet music before her, but her mind wandered far beyond the intricacies of the piece she had been playing.

    Mary's younger sisters, Lydia and Kitty, were busy sharpening their swords by the hearth, the metallic rasp of blade against whetstone an oddly comforting backdrop to Mary's music.

Elizabeth and Jane, on the other hand, were seated at the table, oiling their musket and pistol with rapt attention, each movement precise.

While her sisters excelled in the art of combat, each skilled and fearless in their own way, Mary had always felt set apart, her strengths lying not necessarily in physical prowess but in the sharpness of her mind and the depth of her convictions.

Her brown hair was coiled into a neat braid, the style both practical and elegant, and as she moved her head in time with the music, her gold earrings brushed lightly against her jawline.

     Her posture was perfect, her fingers moving effortlessly up and down the ivory keys, weaving the notes together with a skill and grace that spoke of countless hours of practice.

There was a certain comfort in the familiarity of the instrument, in the way her fingers knew instinctively where to go, even when her thoughts drifted far elsewhere.

    Mr. Bennet, seated nearby, was occupied with his own blade. His eyes were keen, his movements sure, and Mary could see the years of experience etched into the lines of his face, the weight of countless battles fought against an enemy that never truly died.

    Mary glanced at her father briefly out of the corner of her eye, her gaze lingering on his weathered hands—hands that had wielded countless weapons in defense of their family.

    It was in that tranquil moment that Mrs. Bennet's voice shattered the peace like a bullet through glass.

    "Mr. Bennet, have you heard? Netherfield Park is occupied again by a Mr. Bingley." Her voice, high and animated, carried easily through the room.

    Mary's hands stilled on the keys, the final note hanging in the air like a question. She turned in her seat, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in her mother's excited expression.

    Mrs. Bennet stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes bright as she looked toward her daughters, clearly relishing the importance of her news.

    "He is a young, single man of large fortune. Mrs. Long says his income is four or five thousand a year."

The prospects for a man of fortune were many, even in a world overrun by the undead.

Mary felt her brow lift, though it was more out of curiosity than enthusiasm. A young man of such wealth choosing to settle in their quiet, beleaguered corner of the countryside was rare indeed. And to do so unmarried and unattached seemed almost reckless.

"He will be attending the village dance tonight." Mrs. Bennet finished, leaning eagerly toward her husband, who glanced up from his sword to look at his daughters.

"And how does this concern our warrior daughters?" Mr. Bennet asked.

The words were delivered with his usual blend of irony and affection, but there was an edge to his tone that Mary did not miss. His love for them, his fierce pride, was tempered always by caution.

Mrs. Bennet deflated, her triumphant expression slipping into a familiar look of exasperation. "Oh, how can you be so tiresome?" She replied, clearly irritated. "You know I mean for him to marry one of them."

Mary caught the knowing look that passed between her sisters, the subtle shift in Elizabeth's posture, the slight arch of Jane's brow.

There was no need to speak aloud the absurdity of their mother's hopes, the sheer impracticality of it all. What use were riches in a world where survival often hinged on the blade's edge?

However much their mother had tried, her efforts had been proven futile thus far.

The threat of the undead often overshadowed any attempts at matrimonial arrangements, and the Bennet sisters were known as much for their fighting prowess as for their beauty and charm—qualities not always appreciated in the eyes of society's eligible bachelors.

    Mary sighed softly, her gaze shifting back to the pianoforte before her. It was the same refrain, the same desperate hope that her mother clung to with unyielding determination.

    The prospect of marriage, of security in the traditional sense, seemed a distant fantasy to Mary, more dream than reality.

And yet, she could not fault her mother for wanting something more for her daughters than a life spent in constant vigilance, waiting for the next attack, the next death.

    Though, Mary knew there would be no suitor for her to attach herself to. She had all but given up, deterred by her lack of proposals over the years she had already been out in society.

Without a word, Mary pushed her seat back and crossed the room to sit beside Kitty, who had paused mid-polish to listen to their mother's news with uncharacteristic focus.

Mary could feel the tension in the room as their father and mother continued their verbal sparring.

"Our daughters do not dance well with masticated brains, Mrs. Bennet." Mr. Bennet quipped, his lips curling into a wry smile.

Jane giggled softly beside Elizabeth, trying in vain to hide her amusement behind the back of her hand.

Mary felt a flicker of amusement despite herself. It was an admirable goal, she supposed, for a mother who had seen her daughters grow up in a world turned upside down.

But admiration did not equate to belief, and she doubted Mr. Bingley—if he was indeed as sensible as his wealth suggested—would be so easily swayed.

    "You, sir, have already put them at a decided social disadvantage by insisting they do their combat training in China rather than Japan." Mrs. Bennet's voice was sharp, her tone bordering on accusatory as she pulled her peach-colored shawl tighter around her shoulders, as though the very thought of their training was enough to send a chill through her.

Her eyes, usually so quick to sparkle with frivolous concerns, were dark with reproach as they fixed on her husband.

Elizabeth, always quick to assert herself, looked up from where she was seated, her eyes flashing with pride. "I, for one, would trade nothing for my Shaolin training." She declared, her voice ringing with confidence as she set her pistol carefully upon her lap.

    Mrs. Bennet turned sharply toward her, her expression shifting from frustration to something closer to shock. "You mustn't speak like that, Lizzy." She admonished.

    But Elizabeth's resolve did not falter. "Let society think what they will, Mama. I have no shame in my training, nor in what I've learned." Her chin lifted slightly.

    Elizabeth had never been one to temper her spirit for the sake of others' sensibilities, and she was not about to start now, no matter the cost.

    The tension in the room crackled like the promise of a coming storm, but it was Jane who eased it, her soft, measured voice cutting through the rising discord like a balm. "I should like to go to the dance tonight." She said.

    Lydia, her eyes bright with excitement, leaned toward Kitty, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was anything but discreet. "Do you think Mr. Bingley's handsome?"

    "With his income, Lydia, you'd think him handsome if he had half a zombie face." Elizabeth quipped, her tone light, though her smile was edged with something sharper.

    There was a knowing gleam in her eyes as she watched Lydia's cheeks flush, embarrassment overcoming her that left her features in vivid hues.

    Mary, who had been observing the exchange in silence, felt a laugh bubble up before she could suppress it.

The sound escaped her, startling in its abruptness, and she quickly adjusted her spectacles, a futile attempt to cover her lapse.

    Lydia's head whipped around, her eyes narrowing as she shot a glare in Mary's direction.

    Mary's amusement faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a faint blush of her own. "Sorry." She said, her tone earnest, though the corners of her mouth still twitched with the effort of holding back her laughter.

    It was a rare thing, for Mary to find humor in such moments, and rarer still for her to express it openly. Lydia huffed, turning away with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

    "I don't want to go." Elizabeth said abruptly, her voice cutting through the remnants of laughter. "I have no interest in being paraded around like a herd of heifers at a farm auction."

    "That's because you're the cow least proficient in the art of tempting the other sex." Lydia replied sweetly, her voice dripping with false innocence. She leaned closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Moo."

    The air seemed to still as Elizabeth's expression darkened, her jaw tightening. She placed her pistol down on the table with deliberate care, each movement measured, controlled.

For a heartbeat, everything seemed suspended, the room holding its breath in anticipation of what would come next.

    And then, in a sudden blur of motion, Elizabeth surged to her feet. Lydia's triumphant smile vanished, replaced by a shriek of startled laughter as she bolted from her chair, darting toward the door with Elizabeth in swift pursuit.

The younger girl's laughter echoed through the hallways, mingling with Elizabeth's playful threats as the chase wound through the house, their voices rising and falling like music, wild and unrestrained.

Mary, left in the sudden, tumultuous wake of their departure, rose from her seat with a sigh.

Her gaze drifted toward the door, where the sounds of her sisters' footsteps still echoed, fading as they moved farther away. The corners of her mouth curved in a small, indulgent smile as she shook her head.

It was, perhaps, a foolish thing to chase after them. And yet, there was a part of her—a part she rarely allowed to surface—that longed for the same carefree abandon that her sisters embraced so easily.

She moved toward the door, her steps light, almost hesitant. Kitty caught her arm as she passed, her eyes bright with excitement. "Come on, Mary! Let's catch them!" She urged, her voice bubbling over with eagerness.

With a quiet laugh, Mary nodded, allowing herself to be pulled along, her earlier reserve melting away in the face of Kitty's enthusiasm.

The sound of their father's voice, booming from the parlor, followed them as they darted into the hallway.

"Do not mistake my indulgence for a relaxation in discipline!" Mr. Bennet's tone was stern, but the faint trace of amusement beneath it was unmistakable.

    That night would bring what it would, as it always did.

If Mr. Bingley was indeed curious enough, or brave enough, to attend the village dance, then he would meet the Bennet sisters as they were: poised, resilient, and ever ready to defend what little peace they had carved out of a world gone mad.

    And if he expected anything less, well, Mary mused with a small, private smile, he would soon learn that fortune, no matter how large, was a poor defense against a well-aimed musket.

END OF CHAPTER I.