I like the plot, but not how the plot is opened. The opening should pull the readers imagination into the story.
Here is your opening;
I associated the Work House with hate. Madame Dmitri hated the workers, and the workers hated her in return. Everyone hated The Guild and the Fae, and no one trusted the Elementals. The Work House was crippled by hate, and that was why I had always found it so repulsing.
While the other workers slept, I dressed in my nicest clothes, and strapped on my work boots, the only shoes I had. With a pair of scissors I cut to slits in the back of my shirt at my shoulder blades. I crept silently to the window. The window in the Workers Barracks was the only window in the Work House that wasn’t alarmed, because it was six stories off the ground. The jump would be fatal to anyone who attempted it.The reader has no visual. You have not set the stage for the characters. A reader can understand the opening the more they read. Your first section leaves the reader in the dark. A writers number one tool is the readers imagination. When you open the curtain...you want the stage set
Here is an example of stage setting; (from Clay of the Gods.)
Clay of the Gods/Chapterten/Jonah Page 210
The wind blew not from the north, nor the south, nor east or west. It came straight down from the darkness above; spilling cold onto the tops of the mountains of Zebulun. The new snow swirled in a crescendo of sound. Ice began appearing everywhere. The dung-roofed huts of Gath Hepher became chilled white mounds. Spiders, beetles, ticks, and all the creepy things of summer scurried and rushed to burrow deep into the frozen earth. The winged red beetles froze, and were carried away into the darkness of the storm. The goats of the high ranges had descended into the lush green valleys weeks before, so had the big cats and the wolf, their mortal enemies.
The field mice and the snake shared the same deep burrow. Only occasionally would the snake feed upon the mice. His winter food supply was assured.
On the north face of the small canyon, ice found its way into every crack, tearing stone away from stone. The snow settled onto narrow mountain paths made by men who had no love of this land. Traders from other lands trudged across these mountains, leaving their scars upon the natural beauty. The bones of pack animals, and men jetted out from the red dirt. The signs of man were everywhere.
The stage is now set. The characters now walk onto the stage.
Your imagination should have taken over within the first few sentences.Jonah frowned at his bare cold feet. He picked at the scaled dirt between his toes. The stink from his rotted teeth, and sick gums gave off a foul smell. A growl came from deep within his lungs. He spit the yellow of its foul onto the dirt floor and covered it. Old age was not settling well with Jonah. He found nothing to look forward too. He felt of no value to anyone, nor did he care to be. His penis, once the symbol of his strength now
hung lifeless. His toe nails had become a dark yellow-breaking off at their edges,
revealing a rotted black like those of dead goats. Pink spots covered his legs. Before him
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the bowl of oiled sweet cake and lamb gave off a smell he found unpleasant. He watched his old woman shuffling her bare feet into the sandy floor for warmth. Shadows cut deep into the line of her face, revealing years of depression. Gone was her long black hair that once smelled of summer flowers, now a dry yellowing gray tangled mess. He found her scent more offensive than his dinner. Was this truly the woman he had vowed to love forever? Her lower lip hung down, almost pointed in the center. He watched the droll increasing with every movement of her open mouth. It formed a thin line from the crevice of her lower lip to the boiling pot before her. Where was the woman he had felt so much passion for? Was it she who had made his blood boil and his heart pound? He could not recall the last time they had made love. A picture of her young unclothed body flashed before him. What happened to her? Did he look as repulsive to her, as she to him? It had been many years since he had seen his face in the mirror his father had given him. He regretted having traded it away for wine. Where had youth gone? Was he now one of those pathetic old people? He pushed the clay bowl away, and let out a heavy sigh.
“Naomi, wipe your mouth,” he stammered, “are you trying to spoil the soup?”