If you'd like to see these small changes integrated, here is the refined text:
The morning arrived quietly, the way mornings do in places without traffic or electricity—a slow brightening at the window, birdsong, the distant sound of someone moving through the corridor outside.
I was awake before it was fully light, lying on the sofa with my arm over my eyes, running through what I knew. I was in a body that wasn't mine, in a world that ran on elemental magic, inside a story that had already ended badly once. I had a Wood element I couldn't control and a tentative partnership with a duke who proposed marriage the way other people proposed splitting a bill. I had no idea how to get home. And at some point before the year ended, I needed to make sure a kingdom didn't fall.
No pressure, I thought.
I heard movement from across the hall—the quiet sounds of someone rising early, water being poured. Drew—already awake and organized, because of course he was.
I sat up and looked around the room properly for the first time. The wardrobe stood open from last night, its contents green in every variation: deep forest, pale sage, dark olive. Dresses, blouses, a linen overskirt, and tucked in the back corner, a set of practical training clothes—loose trousers and a long shirt, both in that same insistent green—that looked like they had barely been touched.
I crossed to the wardrobe and pulled everything out onto the bed to assess it. The real Ava would have worn the dresses, I thought, keeping herself small, decorative, and easy to overlook. I picked up the trousers and held them to the light. The fabric was good—sturdy linen, well-cut. But the shirt was too loose and the trousers too long, made for a body with different proportions from mine.
In competitions, I had always sewn my own costumes. Not from modesty or frugality, but because no pre-made leotard ever fit exactly right, and "exact" was the only standard I worked to. I had learned from my mother's seamstress kit at age eleven and never stopped. I looked around the room and found, in the bottom drawer of the writing desk, a small sewing kit: needles, thread in several colors, and a pair of small scissors.
Of course there's a sewing kit, I thought, with the faint warmth of recognizing a kindness from a world that didn't know me yet.
I worked for the better part of an hour. I took in the shirt at the waist and shortened the sleeves to the elbow. I hemmed the trousers to the right length and tapered them through the thigh so they wouldn't catch during movement. Then—carefully, because the scissors were small and the fabric was not ideal for this—I cut a length from the green over skirt and sewed it as a partial skirt overlay, front-fastening, falling to mid-thigh. Functional. Distinctive. Still unmistakably green, which I could do nothing about, but at least structured in a way that was mine.