"They might look like everyone else," the templar trainer told his cadre of fresh recruits, "but they are not."
He paced in front of the line of fresh-faced young men and women and paused to fix each with a steely stare in turn. "They may look like your best friend, your first kiss…"
He paused in front of a black-haired youth who met his eyes with a challenging glare. "Your sister. But they aren't like us."
He waited until the recruit narrowed his eyes at the pointed reference before moving on. "When it comes down to it, always remember, there's us, and there's them."
He stopped at the sound of a muffled snort and turned back to the youth –the Hawke –and said, "The difference is, we've got the Maker on our side. What have they got?"
Only once Carver Hawke dropped his eyes to the ground did he move on again, leading his recruits in what would be only the first of hundreds, even thousands, of recitations of the Chant of Light. His work would be done when his recruits thought of the Chant before they thought for themselves.
Individuality was for dead men.