Page 2 of To Cage a Wild Bird (Divided Fates #1)

The jail was the newest structure in the Lower Sector but also the least inviting. The front room was nothing but gray walls

and barred windows, bare save for the desk occupying the middle of the space and the bloodred flag covering the wall behind

it. In the center of the flag were three black interlocking circles—one on top, two below. Three circles. Three sectors. Three

Councilors. The flag of Dividium.

The heavy entrance doors cut off the chatter of the streets, immersing us in a tense silence broken by the tinny voice emanating

from the small screen of the tablet Captain Flint held.

“We have a breaking update on the attack on the western quadrant of the crop fields that occurred nearly two weeks ago. After

a tireless investigation by city guards, the Council has reported findings that Eris Cybin, known terrorist and leader of

the rebel organization called the Collective, is the culprit behind a fire that destroyed a large portion of the city’s coming

harvest and resulted in the death of several field workers, as well as the death of Silas V. Elder, the husband of Councilor

Caltriona Elder.”

I squinted at the tablet.

That couldn’t be right.

Eris was the leader of the Upper Sector’s cell of the Collective.

Though Eris had led dangerous rallies and attacks against the Council in the past, none had focused on the city’s harvest. Damaging the crops would hardly impact the Council—it was the Lower Sector that would suffer.

The Collective’s responsibility for the death of Councilor Elder’s husband would mean more patrols and arrests in the Lower Sector, warranted or not.

“Guards are still investigating what Elder was doing beyond Dividium’s border wall in the first place, with the leading theory

being a meticulously planned kidnapping and execution by the Collective. Eris Cybin remains at large.”

The news stream faded into a commercial for a Middle Sector jewelry shop that specialized in shaving teeth from Endlock into

charm bracelets.

Flint’s bulbous form hunched over the device, his eyes never lifting from the screen, even as I shoved Torin before me.

Torin had dragged his feet on the short walk to the jail, only relenting when I’d pulled out my dagger and threatened to remove

his favorite appendage. After that, I could hardly keep up.

“Torin Bond,” I announced, handing him over to the guards beside Flint’s ornate desk.

Flint’s device fell, his attention fully captured by the man now in his custody.

“Council above, you went after a fugitive from the Upper Sector?” His blue eyes held mine, but I couldn’t tell whether he

admired my bravery or found humor in my stupidity.

“Flint, we’re talking about ten thousand credits here.”

He scanned a piece of parchment, searching for Torin’s name. “What did he do?”

“His wife had an affair last year. When Torin caught her, he reported her lover to the guards—told them he’d stolen a valuable

watch. The man was sent to Endlock for it. Killed. And then, a few weeks ago, Torin’s wife found the watch hidden in his study

and reported him.”

Flint let out a whistle. “Juicy.”

“The bitch set me up,” Torin snarled, and the guards yanked at his arms until he quieted.

I curled my lip, addressing Flint but speaking loud enough for Torin to hear. “Even if he hadn’t done that, isn’t watching children starve while having more food than he could ever eat crime enough?”

Perhaps that wasn’t fair. Maybe I was a touch bitter that Torin had been born into a family that knew nothing about the lengths

most of us had to go to for survival.

But food wasn’t the only thing that separated the Lower Sector from the Upper. In the Lower Sector, getting arrested was nearly

as easy as breathing. But in the Upper Sector, most citizens got a slap on the wrist for anything other than the most heinous

of crimes.

And what Torin had done was as good as murder.

Flint grunted, not keen to say anything untoward about the Upper Sector when one of the Council’s spies might be listening.

The guards disappeared behind a door with Torin. They would lock him in a holding cell until the next transport to Endlock

was ready.

Flint shook his head at me before swiping at his tablet, typing in a passcode to access the reward system. “Slow day. You’re

the first to come in.”

He hit a final button, and my wristband vibrated. I tilted the face toward me and watched as the credits on the small screen

steadily increased, relief flooding my body.

I’d been down to my last fifty credits, left from the bounty I’d turned in a month before. A woman named Perri.

There were plenty of illegal operations running rampant in the Lower Sector, but Perri’s had been the most lucrative. Mostly

because it preyed on desperation. She’d sold counterfeit medication. Antibiotics that failed to treat infection, knockoff

heart medications—you name it, she sold it. Aggie had heard rumors that Perri’s arrest had done little to end the business,

and I was still working on tracking down the other people involved.

I narrowed my eyes as the screen on my wrist stopped at a number just north of eight thousand. I turned back to Flint. “Eight?

It’s supposed to be ten.”

He shrugged, grimacing. “You brought me damaged goods. He’s missing a tooth, and he has a black eye. You know the broken ones bring in less for Endlock.”

He spoke as if the prisoners’ injuries, their lives , were an inconvenience to his bank account—but voicing that thought would only make him a witness to my hypocrisy.

Their deaths funded my existence as well.

“Jed’s eighteen now,” I blurted instead, hoping maybe he’d take pity on me and throw in a few extra credits. My brother, Jed,

was why I’d gotten into bounty hunting in the first place—he relied on me, and I would do anything to keep him fed.

“Already?” Flint whistled, logging out of the reward system and sealing away my chances of more credits. “I remember the day

you first walked in here.”

Jed was eleven then, and I was sixteen.

The jail had seemed terrifying to my innocent eyes. Sterile cement walls and hulking guards who shouted through the locked

door when inmates got too rowdy on the other side. Captain Flint had printed me a list of wanted fugitives without batting

an eye. I dropped out of school the next day and began scouting for my first target.

But for all Flint’s shortcomings, I was indebted to the man. Without his help, Jed and I would have starved on the streets,

unable to scrape together enough to pay the rent on our run-down apartment.

“He grew up fast,” I said weakly. And he had. I’d been responsible for Jed since our parents’ deaths seven years ago.

Now Jed would be considered a fully fledged member of society, sentenced as an adult for any indiscretions instead of receiving

a strike.

Minors were afforded three chances to stay within the bounds of the law. Three strikes and then they were sent to Endlock

to be selected as hunting targets, no matter their age.

With each crime committed by a child, the city guards slashed a long, deep line into their shoulder with a standard-issue

switchblade—the scars were how they kept track of how many chances each child had left.

I reflexively rubbed at the two strike marks carved into the back of my left shoulder, the scars thick and permanently raised.

“Better get going.” Flint made a shooing motion in the direction of the door, already bored and ready to get back to watching

the news stream. He put his stockinged feet up onto his desk. “May the Council watch over you.”

I waved to Flint, pushing past the guards who stood watch at the entrance to the city jail as I muttered the required response.

“May they guide us to eternal peace.”