Miles sucks in a breath. A working blade, yes, with a duty more than just its sharp edge ... This is an inheritance in his hands. An entire planet. A symbol much like his own dagger, worth more for what it means than for what it is. Good god. He hardly dares to touch it, now; he cannot even bear the fiction that he might attempt to keep it.

So he swallows, slowly. Lowering his hands with absolute reverence, so that the blade rests gently in his lap. "A symbol of your planet held as collateral for the honor of your planet," he murmurs. "That seems fiercely appropriate."

He runs his fingers gently along the details again. Just. Overwhelmed a moment. Perhaps more than a Betan should be, but he does not particularly care at the moment. "I will keep it secret, and hold it in trust until you have been freed."