On the forty fifth morning of her stay in Sylvergate prison the world trembled. At least that's what it felt like to Wilona Larksen. It was the shouting that first awoke her. She had jerked upright, confusion quickly filling her sleep blurred mind and then a familiar fear gripped a hold. The narrow cell which smelled of limestone, piss and despair was still the same as it had been the night before. She let out a shaky sigh, it wasn't the first time that Wilona had woken in a panic, sure that she would open her eyes to a scene of falling rubble and a collapsing ceiling. It took her a few moments to settle her pounding heartbeat and shaky hands. She cocked her head, listening for the noises that had originally awoken her, or maybe she had only imagined it—it wouldn't have been the first time. No, there it was again! The distanced cry of people’s raised voices. This was strange. While the violent shaking was typical in the prison, from the prisoners footsteps as they were moved across the chambers; she had never heard them vocalise like this before.