Grand Marshal Mikhail looked at the large map that was layed out in front of him, his brow furrowed. He had just been appointed by Royal Decree to the most important position in all of Krionik, that of Grand Marshal. It had been a long, arduous path to this point, starting with his conscription at the age of 16. Following his ten years of mandatory military service, he had re-enlisted as an officer in the army, slowly working his way up the ranks. Now, almost three decades later, he had reached the pinnacle of his career. Of course, the prestige granted by the position of Grand Marshal carried with it a solemn duty. It was his job to protect the tiny nation of Krionik from the dangers of the outside world.
Krionik existed in a precarious situation. Originally a colony of some long forgotten Yastreovakian nation, it’s position was now seemingly untenable. On all sides, the nation was surrounded by larger, far more powerful nations. To the east, Plazland loomed over the nation, providing a constant source of anxiety to the citizenry. There were still those old enough to remember the loss of the final vestiges of Krioniki control outside of the island, when the vast nation had seized the pitiful holdings that Krionik had maintained over the Formosan coast. To the north, The Angel of Charity cast a shadow over the Martial Principality. Their recent modernization programs had left some Krioniki military analysts claiming that there was no way the tiny nation would be able to keep up with their smaller population and budget. His lip curled as he thought of the Charitians. What an ironic name. They call themselves Charitable, and yet they deny us the birthright granted to us by almighty God. Our nation was to spread from one end is the island chain to the other, a shining example of Yastreovakian perseverance. When the Homeland had fallen, we remained, carving out a life here on New Krionik. But by the time we had established ourselves as self reliant, as a true nation, they had already spread across the islands like the plague. Finally, to the west of Krionik lay Merlovich. The vast nation had never bothered Krionik directly, but it’s mere presence was intimidating. There were few islands in the Formosan Archipelago not yet under the control of either Charity or some other Oriental nation. Krionik was the latchkey to the Archipelago, and presented a tempting target to any nations interested in naval supremacy of the region, something which Merlovich seemed to have been pursuing aggressively as of late.
Sighing, Mikhail rubbed his eyes as he stared intently at the map. Krionik had long survived due largely to purposefully gaining as little attention as possible. If no nations thought of them, none would try to invade. For centuries, the presence of their small island nation had been debated even amongst the foremost cartographers of far-off Nonscio, who had assumed the island to be under the control of an Oriental nation. Whenever a nation had noticed them, they had been warned off by the strong martial traditions of the Krioniki, their mentality of “Every Citizen a Soldier.” Mikhail knew this would no longer suffice. Their island bastion was now consistently portrayed on maps, and more and more nations had officially opened up communications with them. They could no longer afford to hide, pretending their doctrine of days gone would suffice. Something drastic must be done.
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