Anton said as he scratched the growing stubble on his chin. He and Tosya had spent the last half hour catching up on all the latest happenings. The situation was dangerous for my Romska friend. He’d been accused of high treason, the empire’s bounty hunters and soldiers were searching for him, and any copies of his book were to be burned if discovered. He spent most of his days in hiding and had taken a great risk in coming to Torchev to meet with Anton. Tosya was supposed to have convened with the prince and his revolutionaries on Morva’s Eve, but when the night before the modest holiday had turned into a grand ball in honor of Floquart de Bonpré, Anton instructed Tosya to stay away. Their thus-far-quiet rebellion was coming to a head, the wrath of the people transforming into its own beast. Something violent was on the brink of happening. Anton feared the spark might be ignited when the people learned of the lowered draft age. “Feliks believes it will be easier to transition the government to the people if I first take it myself,”
