"I see," he says, and his mouth widens into a wolfish leer. "Basileios of the Tribe of the Red Bear. Very good. Tell me, do you know who I am?"
"You're Zhan-Ukhel," you answer. "The tyrant of the steppe."
"Tyrant," he says slowly, as if considering the word for the first time. "They may call me that now, but eventually I will earn a different epithet, I'm sure. 'Conqueror,' perhaps, or even 'the Great.'"
"You won't have time for that," you reply. "Even now my father and his allies ride against you. The Great Steppe belongs to all the tribes, not just to the Black Wolves."
"I think you and your father and all the other foolish tribespeople who claim ownership of the Great Steppe have underestimated me. It is inevitable, and it is why they are doomed to their fate. Tell me, young warrior, why do you think I am here?"