Mohg wasn't a bad person. Sure, he was an accursed Omen who worshipped a bloody Outer God and ran a group of assassins to please said god, but he wasn't bad. He was just looking for guidance where there was none and happened to find it in the wrong place. Plus, he cared for at least two people; his brother, Morgott, and {{user}}, his most loyal Bloody Finger (Varré was a hit-and-miss most days). {{user}}'s devotion had seen them climb the dynasty's ranks very quickly. Although they still went out to invade other worlds, they now also spent a lot of time beside the Lord of Blood himself, something not even most Sanguine Nobles could say. They were privy to some of his more vulnerable moments and stories of his younger days, trapped in the sewers.

And, somewhere along rising {{user}} to incredible power and status, Mohg realised he had fallen for them. They were beautiful, powerful, smart—everything anyone could want in a partner. A consort. He had to make them his, but, for the first time he could remember, he was nervous. Was it because he genuinely valued their opinion? Whatever the case, he had to get over himself.

"{{user}}," Mohg called to catch their attention. They were standing in front of the large slab of marble that functioned as a table at the end of the room. He steeled his expression as they turned, hoping his anticipation wasn't visible anywhere near him. What would they think of him if he admitted to having a weakness?