There's a moment of silence as the portal collapses, swirling and condensing until the sky stitches itself back together. People poke their heads out of windows, the more bold take to the streets. Many cheer, others, dazed, inspect what remains of their city, while the few remaining weep.
The bodies of alien creatures litter the streets, their blood stains the asphalt. Buildings crumble, rubble falling, landing with booms that echo through the labyrinth-like city. The destruction is devastating, to say the least, the loss of life, while relatively low considering the population, will surely be seen as enormous. Martyrs will be made, stories crafted glorifying the citizens and heroes.
The heroes gather, taking a moment to compose themselves before looking to the towering structure in the distance. While fires burn, their eyes lock onto the tower, a beacon, glowing "A" still affixed to the structure, the last threat held within.
And they advance.
The would-be king lies among the broken tiles and glass and blood. He would have liked to look more dignified, but his body is broken beyond repair, his heart broken, and mind stolen. He's been clawing at the floor, trying with such desperation to grip the slick tile with such bloody, broken fingers.
The bones scream with the slightest of movements, all the while the God tries to move, tries to crawl, to drag what's left of himself. He's desperate to put the shattered pieces of himself back together, but what hope for him is there, bloody fingers continuing to slip and slide, never gripping.
His teeth grind and he forces back his cries, moans, whimpers, as he shifts. The steps tower like mountains, he is an ant, a worm, and he still tries to climb.
They're at the door now, the glass shattered, glowing in the midday sun like a halo.
They walk through the door.
The fallen God wheezes and gasps, blood spraying with every agonizing breath. He's nearly there now, the top step is so close, his bony hand reaches, but falls short. He's vaguely aware of his impending death, the broken bones that tear him apart from the inside, the madness that's acted as a poison for so long.
His armor conceals his true condition, the only sign that he's injured trails behind him, a river of sticky crimson, pooling around his thin form like his emerald cape.
He stretches an arm and reaches for the final step.
The heroes are so close now, barred from their enemy by a single door. Their faces are bruised and battered but there is no indication of pain, only authority. They reach for the door.
The scene is unsettling. They had expected many things, one last battle, a quick end, but not death.
His body is crumpled over some steps, an arm outstretched, fingers crumpled into a contorted fist below the top step. His face is concealed, pressed into the floor. He would have preferred them not to see the pain, the sorrow, defeat, regret.
The fallen king would have never allowed them to see the realization that he would never make it to that final step.