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Really excellent writing is often misleadingly easy to read: the author's labor, however painful or protracted, is simply invisible in the final product. So sentences should generally use simple grammatical constructions, with no unnecessary words, and each sentence or paragraph should introduce only a limited number of ideas. There WILL, of course, sometimes be good reasons (associated with the rhythm of the language or the development of the story) to incorporate awkward or complicated syntax, extra words, or a clutter of concepts -- but the exceptional passages will be more expressive if the surrounding text is designed for easy reading.
A standard way to limit the number of ideas is to enforce unity of time and place, with very few references to locations or events or people other than those under immediate consideration. This unity CAN certainly be violated, but again there should be a good reason. A brilliant example of the rule broken is the first sentence of Marquez's Hundred Years of Solitude, in which the Colonial, facing a firing squad, remembers a day years earlier when his father took him to see a novelty (ice); and the reader remains curious about the story of the firing squad for quite a while, since the book only returns to that story many pages later.
Let me now comment on just a few examples from your prologue to indicate what I mean.
"Ni-bishicratza, the twentieth day of the month of Dex, in the year 217" throws three curiosities at the reader: "Ni-bishicratza" (which might be a locale or the name of a holiday), "the month of Dex," and "the year 217." The significance of none of these is immediately clear, and simplicity might suggest cutting this entire date-time stamp -- or, if it is ultimately essential to the color of the prologue, moving the date-time stamp to the VERY END of the prologue, where it does not serve as an initial hurdle to readers.
"Virasha Di'uhmar, the Sah'lara of Ni-bishia, fidgeted with her gem buckle, fastening tight the vestigus that hugged her thin frame. The long narrow weave of winding burlap warmed her bones and granted her a much needed sense of security."
Here, again the reader faces curiosities: "Virasha Di'uhmar," " Sah'lara," " Ni-bishia," and "vestigus." Perhaps the full name "Virasha Di'uhmar" could be simplified to "Virasha" or even replaced by "she" at this point; more detail can be introduced as necessary, and for providing the name, it might be smoother to have the reader learn her name when someone calls her by name. Similarly "the Sah'lara of Ni-bishia" could be omitted here, it being entirely unclear whether "Sah'lara of Ni-bishia" refers (say) to a political official (Sah'lara) in a locale (Ni-bishia) or an officiant (Sah'lara) of a religious cult (Ni-bishia). "Vestigus" is one of the cases of the Latin "vestigium," and (although it seems to suggests "vest") is not an English word for a garment; the neologism does not serve any obvious important purpose in the text and could perhaps be eliminated completely. It is odd to see a gem buckle against burlap, a rather cheap and coarse fabric, which would not really be of much use for keeping a person warm, unless another (much less drafty layer) covered it. So here we have a person, of strange name and obscure title, wealthy enough to have gemstones on her belt and yet perhaps so impoverished and cold that even burlap is a comfort.
The number of new ideas introduced at every turn is bewildering. The rest of the prologue takes her from this dark room (where the winter wind comes through the open window to reassure her), down a hallway, and into the throne room, where an expected execution is replaced by a banishment. Some of the questions, raised above, are eventually answered -- but then the inquiring reader will have many more: the reason Virasha needs a "sense of security," the meaning of "deceit crept into the cold air," why "she wished .. to leave the land," what "she would soon witness" and so on. While a limited amount of uncertainty (say, an essential unanswered question and one or two minor unresolved points) might propel the reader forward, many unresolved matters may simply produce exhaustion. A similar comment applies to details: almost every detail should appear for a specific reason.
So here is my advice (worth, as usual, exactly what you paid for it). (1) Figure out in what one place or over what very short period of time the prologue takes place. For example, it might begin when she walks out of her room and might end when she enters the throne room. (2) Ruthlessly cut out and set aside anything except the most passing reference to events other than her stroll down the hall -- except perhaps to the fact that she fears she is responsible for a sentence of death. Things she sees walking down the hall should produce only the briefest partial reactions from her: she can walk by the meditation room unused since her grandfather's time, for example; but the rest of that particular story would be out of place. (3) The prologue should be told from a single point of view: if you adopt Virasha's view, rewrite sentences, like "Winter shadows crept through an open round window, dancing in the cold like lonely star spirits," so that they reflect Virasha's view. (4) Take out EVERY unnecessary word. When you include a detail, ask yourself how that detail moves the reader to the next sentence, moves Virasha down the hallway, and moves the reader to feel familiar with Virasha. (5) The prologue probably should not tell a complete story. It should leave a major tension unresolved and one or two questions in the reader's mind. (6) Read your prose aloud to yourself. Ask if rearranging sentences or substituting words would produce a better rhythm. (6) The next chapter might not begin where the prologue left off. It might, for example, tell of the population's reaction to the banishment. Or it might tell part of the story leading to the Virasha's long loneliness.
A minor point: a blank line between paragraphs often helps if text has not been professionally typeset.
Best wishes! - s4p
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