Page 1 of To Cage a Wild Bird (Divided Fates #1)

One hundred twenty-seven.

That was the number of lives I’d traded for a full belly over the years.

Today would make one hundred twenty-eight.

I’d holed up in the shadowed alcove of the alley since midday, the reek of piss and rotting trash making my eyes water.

My muscles were stiff, begging to be stretched, but I resisted, keeping my gaze fastened to the entrance of the safe house.

The ramshackle town house was tucked between two crumbling apartment buildings, its front door worn enough that it might fall

from its hinges with a well-aimed kick.

What was taking so long?

Typically, before the sun dipped below the tops of the skyscrapers and continued its descent toward the horizon, I’d have

a fugitive cuffed, dragging their feet, as I pulled them toward the city jail. From there, the fugitive would be transported

to Endlock, the prison that lay over a hundred miles from the city border. At Endlock, they would await their fate—death at

the hands of Dividium citizens.

But even though Aggie’s informant had said the fugitive would move from the safe house before dark, there had been no sign

of him, and at this time of evening, the Lower Sector buzzed with activity. Vendors shouted and pushed rickety carts through

the streets as they attempted to make their final sales to the day shift laborers rushing to spend a bit of their meager wages,

while dark-hooded figures skulked through the crowds, hoping to overhear information they could trade to the authorities for

extra credits.

Wary pedestrians shot fleeting glances my way as they slipped by my hiding place, likely mistaking me for a patrolling guard.

I was worse.

A bounty hunter—a traitor.

The safe house door creaked open an inch. I pressed myself farther into the alcove, breath caught in my throat, for fear that

the slightest sound would send me home empty-handed.

A heartbeat later, the door yawned wide, and a finely clothed figure ventured out, braving the alley in hopes of blending

into the wave of Lower Sector commuters.

I abandoned my hiding spot, and a grim smile spread across my face as I stepped toward the retreating form.

This would all be over soon. I could already imagine the credits on my wristband creeping from a few dozen into the thousands.

Enough for several months’ rent and a pantry full of rations to get my brother, Jed, and me through the winter. Maybe even

enough for a new pair of boots to replace the ones falling apart on my feet and a winter coat for Jed.

“Torin Bond,” I called.

The figure halted mid-stride, craning his neck. His hood slid back to expose a mop of brown hair streaked with gray. His weary

eyes were underscored with deep purple and lined with faint wrinkles.

“Stop,” I commanded as he took another step, my hand reaching for the set of handcuffs secured at the belt of my black cargo

pants. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

A half lie. There would be some small satisfaction in getting into a fistfight with a citizen from the Upper Sector—one of

the wealthy who took and took even as they watched us starve.

“Then don’t.”

With that, Torin vanished into the bustling crowd of commuters, a shadow swallowed by a river of moving bodies.

Shit.

I’d lose my advantage if he made it to the border checkpoint that controlled the flow of movement between the Lower and Middle Sectors.

Thousands of commuters were lined up on either side of the checkpoint, waiting for the patrol guards to scan their wristbands to verify their identities and confirm they had the correct permissions to cross the sector border.

If Torin got there, I would either lose him in the masses, or one of the guards would recognize him and wind up with my credits.

The boundary dividing the two sectors was unmistakable—the structures in the Lower Sector stood as crumbling remnants of the

world before, unchanged since the Council partitioned the city into three sectors after the second Civil War.

A few blocks from where I was positioned, on the other side of the checkpoint, the Middle Sector was full of newly constructed

buildings and well-dressed citizens. Their pressed suits and flowing dresses were only the beginning of the divide between

us and them.

I caught sight of Torin among the stream of commuters. He elbowed through the masses, but the throng of bodies slowed his

progress.

I raced along the outskirts of the crowd, pushing myself to move faster.

The cuffs at my waist clanged against my thigh with each stride, nearly drowned out by the soles of my boots slapping against

the packed dirt.

Glancing over his shoulder, Torin exhaled in apparent relief when he didn’t see me behind him.

Just like I planned.

I chose that moment to step directly into his path.

His jaw went slack, and I might have laughed at the look on his face had he not pulled back his fist and swung it at my nose.

I ducked, charging into his legs, sending him crashing forward onto the gritty street. Some of the commuters jumped back,

gasping, while others merely glared and stepped around us.

Torin cried out, scooping up a handful of dirt and gravel and hurling it at me.

I yelped, shielding my eyes, but felt the sting of the debris nicking my cheeks.

The move gave Torin enough time to scramble to his hands and knees, but I launched myself onto his back before he could stand,

sending both of us tumbling to the ground in a heap.

Torin rolled over until he was on top of me, subjecting me to heaving gasps of putrid breath. I rammed my head into his face before he could work out his next move, his yell muffled as his teeth cut into my forehead.

“Fucking bitch!” he screamed, spitting out a tooth and a mouthful of blood, a glob landing on my cheek.

“Original,” I muttered, grimacing as the blood trickled across my skin. “If only credits could buy wit.”

I entertained the thought of pocketing Torin’s tooth. It was customary for hunters who visited Endlock to collect the teeth

from their kills and wear them on chains around their necks or shaved into strings of pearls. I’d seen teeth worn as cuff

links or as the centerpiece of extravagant, diamond-encrusted rings. They were morbid trophies—status symbols. Those who weren’t

skilled in hunting went so far as to buy teeth from vendors in back-alley markets to fit in with their peers—I’d seen my neighbors

pull their own teeth to sell to the wealthy during especially harsh winters when they couldn’t make rent or afford rations

for their children.

Torin’s hands clamped around my throat, cutting off my air supply and any coherent thought. I flailed about, seeking a weapon,

but my fingers found only dirt. On instinct, I kneed him between the legs before delivering a pointed jab to his throat. I

shoved him off me, forcing him onto his stomach, and pressed my knee into his back, gasping in lungfuls of air as I caught

my breath.

I unfastened the handcuffs from my belt and secured them tightly around Torin’s wrists.

He spluttered but still managed to twist his neck until his eyes found my face. I didn’t meet his gaze.

Never make eye contact.

That was the first rule of bounty hunting.

“I have children,” he whimpered.

I swallowed.

So did my parents when the Council sent them to Endlock.

Dividium was ruled by a Council that had formed in the aftermath of the war—three leaders elected by a board of officials from each sector.

Each Councilor was assigned to a sector to enforce regulations: Councilor Elder to the Lower Sector, Councilor Baskan to the

Middle Sector, and Councilor Pena to the Upper Sector.

They all resided in the Upper Sector in homes that were vast enough to house dozens of people.

“Please. I don’t want to die.” Torin’s words were a mere whisper.

He overestimated my character if he thought begging for mercy would help him.

“Neither do I,” I murmured. Empathy wouldn’t keep Jed alive.

The mass of pedestrians continued to weave around us, unfazed, a testament to the number of people arrested and sent to Endlock

every day.

Many of the most frequent visitors to Endlock paid to hunt the Lower-level criminals—that was typically all they could afford.

But the wealthy loved nothing more than the chance to stick it to one of their own. And a prisoner like Torin? The hunters

from the Upper Sector would be itching to take a shot at him.

My heart had nearly stopped when I’d checked the criminal database that morning using the ancient tablet I’d scraped up enough

credits to purchase secondhand a few years prior. An advertisement had popped up, urging me to visit the Lower Sector’s Endlock

Experience office to discuss booking a budget-friendly hunting package featuring a meal plan and two nights’ accommodation

at a campground within view of Endlock’s grounds.

Book now for a free photo package and weapons upgrade!

I’d snorted as the text scrolled across the screen and swiped the ad away to reveal an updated list of bounties. Next to a

grainy picture of Torin, the reward for his capture was set at ten thousand credits.

It was the highest reward I’d seen for a criminal, and the prison would make at least twice that from selling his life to

a hunter.

I’d never had the funds or the desire to partake in a hunt, though I’d sent enough people to the prison to hold myself responsible for signing their death sentences.

I figured hunting was an addiction, like gambling or spirits. It gave people a sense of power, a perception of control in

a society that constrained us with unending rules. Rules for the times of day we were allowed outside our homes. Rules that

dictated where we could step foot within Dividium—we weren’t permitted above the Lower Sector without documented authorization.

I exhaled, hauling Torin to his feet and shoving him toward the city jail.

“What have you got for me today, Raven?” Captain Flint asked, his voice gruff and unfeeling as the concrete walls that surrounded

us.