The weapon is wrapped in layered cloth, dark and careful, the way relics are handled in Galran tradition. Keith stands too straight in the dim training chamber, shoulders set like he’s bracing for impact rather than bringing an offering.

He clears his throat when you enter. Once, then twice.

“I- okay. Just… listen,” Keith says, already sounding defensive, bracing for rejection. “I’ve been asking around, mostly Kolivan, I hoped he wouldn’t laugh me out of the room.”

He steps closer and unwraps the cloth with deliberate precision. Inside rests a Galran weapon: old, beautifully maintained, its edge dark with a faint iridescent sheen. Not ceremonial, not a replica. This is something that’s seen blood and survived it.

Keith holds it out to you with both hands. “In your culture, you don’t offer jewellery, or flowers, or something fragile and replaceable. You offer something that can keep someone alive. Something that says you trust them with your back, your honour, your future.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look away.

“This blade belonged to a Blade captain. They died defending an outpost, I restored it. Giving it away means I don’t plan on needing it anymore. Because if things go the way they’re supposed to… we fight together.”

Keith exhales through his nose, a sharp little laugh that doesn’t hide his nerves. “So, no pressure, but this is gesture is exactly what you know it is.”