Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

Seneca, freshly returned from exile, was finishing up his duties for the day, strolling through the grand Roman palace, its towering white marble structures adorned with flowing crimson banners.

"Rome looks different under the sunlight, doesn't it?"

At the sound of that voice, Seneca turned and respectfully bowed.

A silver-haired boy in a plain white robe sat perched on a raised stone behind him, bathed in the soft glow of the warm afternoon. The sunlight made the boy's skin look almost rosy.

"Lord Novia."

"Seneca, how are the young heirs progressing in their studies?"

"They're doing quite well."

"You've worked hard."

Novia nodded in satisfaction and sat down on a nearby bench. Seneca quietly followed suit.

"Britannicus is only seven, and Octavia is just nine. Both are still young… their education will depend on your care."

Seneca nodded silently. Though already in his fifties, ever since meeting this youth, he had been caught somewhere between shock—and perhaps… admiration.

At just fifteen years old, Novia had already earned the trust of Emperor Claudius, holding sway over the Imperial Secretariat for domestic, diplomatic, and military affairs, overseeing the Treasury, and managing the Judiciary. Claudius not only personally supervised these matters but regularly sought Novia's counsel, even consulting him on senatorial appointments for provincial nobles.

Novia was, quite literally, second only to the emperor himself. On top of that, there was the Christian sect, rapidly spreading under his vigorous promotion.

And unlike the secretaries before him, Novia was utterly free of corruption or greed.

It was impossible for Seneca not to admire him. Of course, there was also the matter of his own release from exile—courtesy of Novia—marking him as firmly in Novia's political camp. What's more, Seneca himself was a Christian… albeit a follower of its original, unadulterated doctrine.

A veteran official who had served through three reigns, Seneca had long been a target of suspicion due to his intellect. It was only a series of fortunate coincidences that had spared him execution. Even so, during Claudius's reign, he had been mercilessly exiled to Corsica for seven years.

When Novia had asked him to tutor Octavia and Britannicus, Seneca had been utterly stunned. After all, barring any unforeseen events, Britannicus was the next emperor. That Novia would entrust him with such an honor—and responsibility…

But although education was nominally Seneca's domain, Novia himself still provided the two children with daily lessons in his own, more progressive interpretation of Christian doctrine.

"You honor me, my lord."

The old and the young man both sipped from the water set on the table. Once, twice…

A soft breeze stirred at their ears. Seneca wondered vaguely—what exactly had brought Lord Novia to seek him out?

The third sip.

"I hear Agrippina paid you a visit today."

The boy didn't even look up as he spoke, smiling faintly while sipping his water.

At those words, the elderly philosopher's sleepy eyes snapped wide open. He shot up from his seat.

"N-no, my lord, you misunderstand! That woman only approached me to ask if I would tutor her child. I refused, I swear—"

"It's fine. I'm only asking." Novia chuckled softly, patting the old man on the shoulder. "Her child… What do you think of them?"

Agrippina's son—the boy who, if history stayed on track, would ascend to Rome's pinnacle six years from now—Nero.

In Novia's recollection, the Type-Moon version of Seneca had been forced to commit suicide by Nero. His famous final words to his wayward student echoed in Novia's mind:

"The bright little gemstone of talent has now become a malignant star. The disasters pouring from you will fall like meteors, igniting everything in their wake. And I, who uncovered your talents, bear some of the blame."

Perhaps out of caution, Seneca simply told Novia now that Agrippina's child showed far less promise than Octavia and Britannicus.

"Oh, and at the end, Agrippina said… 'Please convey my regards to Lord Novia.'"

"I see." Novia narrowed his eyes and began walking toward the palace. "Thank you, Seneca. You should rest now."

"My lord… where are you going?"

"Well, since she's gone to the trouble of sending greetings… it would be rude of me not to meet this Agrippina."

---

Somewhere in the Roman Palace.

A woman sat deep in thought, her expression serene as flower petals drifted gently from the branches above. She spared them a fleeting glance before closing her bright blue eyes. The sunlight was soft and warming.

"Mother… my head hurts…"

The young, tender voice from the girl in her arms snapped the woman from her reverie. Her blue eyes opened, but the scenery around them had barely changed. She looked left and right, as if searching for someone.

"Endure it, Domitius. Today is an important day—for our future."

The mother's words were tinged with coldness. The blonde girl in her arms trembled faintly like a frightened animal. She lowered her head, staring at the ground, before finally murmuring, "…alright."

Domitius—Nero's birth name. He would only become "Nero" after his mother married Emperor Claudius. She had lost her first husband when Nero was just three. Agrippina herself had been exiled. Nero's early years were spent under the care of his aunt, from the family of Lepidus.

Agrippina's urgency was clear. Her visit to Seneca wasn't truly about securing a tutor for her child. It was a calculated attempt to meet the one man whose influence now eclipsed all others in Rome—the fifteen-year-old Novia. Ever since the former empress's death, Agrippina had been scheming to cross paths with him. But her efforts had all failed—until now, this last resort.

As time trickled by, her anxiety only grew. If she couldn't meet Novia today, how could she, as the emperor's niece, properly return to court, insert herself into palace affairs…?

"Then you must be Agrippina. I am Novia."

The sudden voice broke her thoughts. A hint of relief flickered across Agrippina's face as she looked toward the silver-haired youth approaching with casual steps.

"An honor, my lord. I am Agrippina—granddaughter of Augustus, sister to Caligula, niece of Emperor Claudius."

Novia, of course, remained unfazed by her grand lineage. His sea-blue eyes settled on her. Even as he smiled, his expression was unreadable.

"Agrippina," the silver-haired youth spoke, calm yet not devoid of respect, "titles mean nothing. Under God, all are equal."

"Ah… I see. Forgive me, my lord. I only meant to introduce my family, nothing more…"

"Ah."

Suddenly, Domitius gasped softly but quickly fell silent, covering her mouth with a hand. She seemed to have something to say, yet realized it would be meaningless, so she said nothing.

Sometimes, like now, her self-control wasn't enough to suppress the throbbing headache. These episodes came and went.

"Heh… Forgive me, my lord," Agrippina offered an apologetic smile. "This child has suffered headaches since birth. Since they say you're God's envoy… might I trouble you to ease her pain?"

As she spoke, Agrippina discreetly pinched the girl in her arms, prompting her to speak.

"Lo-Lord Novia, I—"

But Novia interrupted her directly, a half-smile, half-sneer on his lips.

"No need. This… condition… surely a mother like you understands it far better than I."