Four hundred and thirty-one people. Meren counted them before the moderator opened proceedings — a habit, and a stalling tactic, and the only way to occupy his hands while he waited. The Academy had tried to cap attendance at three hundred and twenty, the hall's seating capacity. They had failed. People were standing three-deep along the back wall and pressed against the columns on both sides. Nobody had turned anyone away. Nobody had wanted to be the person who decided who got to hear the last debate.
The Grand Hall felt different on the third session. The architecture hadn't changed — same walls, same ceiling, same acoustic design. Different in weight. The first forum had been a contest. The second had been a rupture. The third was — he searched for the right word and found it in the way the audience sat, leaning forward but not tense, settled but not relaxed — atmospheric.
The debate had stopped being an event and started being the weather.
