Amaru watched them enter without showing any obvious discomfort.
That alone reassured Dean more than most of the medical reports had.
Four days could not repair years of chemical suppression, and there was still something too lean about Amaru's face and hands. The medical patches over his scent glands remained visible above the collar of his dark shirt, but his eyes were clear as they moved from Dean to Arion and finally Nero.
Arion took the chair opposite him rather than remaining standing over a man still attached to medical monitoring. Dean sat beside him, while Nero chose the end of the nearby sofa, one long leg stretched forward.
For several seconds, Amaru said nothing.
Then he looked toward the broad windows overlooking the winter gardens.
"How long?"
Dean understood what he meant.
"Four days since we brought you here."
Amaru's gaze returned to him.
"No. Veyra."
Arion answered.
"Eight years."
Nothing in Amaru's expression moved at first.
