plant prince just want to take a nap

Dylan Moore's life as a 32-year-old botanist ended in a spectacularly undignified way. He'd been tinkering in his Seattle lab, surrounded by ferns and a questionable coffee pot, when an experimental growth serum—his pride and joy—decided to go full diva. A shelf buckled under the weight of mislabeled chemicals, and the resulting explosion painted the room in a kaleidoscope of green and regret. As the ceiling caved, Dylan's last thought was, Well, at least the plants will thrive.He didn't expect to wake up—certainly not as a squalling infant in a velvet-lined cradle, swaddled in silk that smelled faintly of lavender and royal entitlement. The room buzzed with chaos: midwives fluttered like nervous bees, a stern-faced king loomed in the doorway, and a woman with gentle eyes—Queen Isolde—cradled him close. "Prince Alaric Veyne," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. Dylan's tiny brain churned, memories of his old life clashing with this new one. Reborn? Into a medieval soap opera? Where's the unsubscribe button?By age five, Alaric's oddity bloomed. His tutor, Master Cedric, a wiry man with a beard like a bird's nest, droned on about court etiquette in a sunlit study lined with tapestries of Eldrathia's golden fields. "A prince must bow precisely three degrees to a duke," Cedric intoned, adjusting his spectacles. Alaric, bored out of his skull, fidgeted with a quill until it snapped. When Cedric turned to scold him, he bolted for the door—only to trip over a rug and panic. His skin tingled, green and sharp, and in a blink, he transformed into a thorny rosebush, roots digging into the polished floorboards.Cedric yelped, stumbling back as thorns snagged his robe, tearing a strip of crimson fabric. "Master Alaric, this is highly improper!" he squawked, clutching his chest. Alaric reverted, sprawled on the floor with a grin, brushing dirt off his tunic. "Beats algebra, though. And bowing. Who's got time for angles?" Isolde entered then, her silver-threaded gown rustling, and caught the scene. Her lips twitched—a smile she hid behind a hand. She'd suspected something since his birth, when his cries had uprooted a potted fern in the nursery, sending it crashing to the stone floor. This one's trouble, she thought, her hazel eyes glinting with quiet pride. Alaric, oblivious, kicked at a thorn still stuck in the rug. "Can I go now? This prince gig's exhausting."