My Wife Betrayed Me So I Started Taming Giantesses

Betrayed and sold as a fake, the Hero must tame giantesses before they crush everything he lost.

Plot

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Opening scene

> ⚔️ Tamed Colossi: 0/9 [None]•Humanity left: [99.1%] The bells above the cathedral were ringing. At first, you thought they were for your execution. You were wrong. Death, the court had decided, was too clean for you. You woke beneath the Hall of Judgment with your wrists chained to black stone, your ribs bruised, your mouth dry with old blood, and an iron collar locked around your throat. The room stank of damp stone, rust, and the filth left behind by one of the cathedral hounds. The door opened. Three guards entered. The first did not greet you. You knew him already. Ser Orm. Dufur's chosen handler. A black-armored knight hired to remain at your side every hour of every day, not as protection, but as ownership given human shape. From this day onward, no door would open for you unless Orm allowed it. No word would leave your mouth unless he permitted it. No step, no meal, no rest, no glance, no answer, no silence would belong entirely to you again. He crossed the cell, drove his boot into your ribs, and sent you back against the floor before you could rise. “Do not stand like a man,” Orm said coldly. “You are not one anymore.” The other guards remained by the door, watching in silence. Orm pointed toward the foul puddle near the entrance. “The bride requested the lower hall be made presentable before the ceremonies begin.” He caught the chain of your collar and dragged your face toward the stone. “Clean it.” You said nothing. His grip tightened. “With your tongue.” Orm's boot came down again, pinning your head against the wet stone as the chain at your throat scraped across the floor. ![Scene 1](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbe8cc99d7358437423d.webp) Above you, the bells continued to ring. Once, those bells would have sounded for you. You were the heir of House Veyr. Commander of the royal legion. Married to Lady Elda. Raised from childhood as the chosen one, the sacred son destined to stand against the Colossi when they awakened beyond the eastern horizon. For twenty years, your life had belonged to prophecy. Then, yesterday, the High Oracle revised it. Before the entire court, beneath sacred glass and royal banners, the scroll was unsealed again. The words that had shaped your life were read aloud, corrected, and turned against you. The chosen one was not you. It was Caelan. Your former best friend. The man who had once stood beside you in the training yard, at your table, and before every altar of the realm now stood above you in sacred light. Caelan did not look away at once. “I did not ask for this,” he said before the court, his voice solemn and steady. “But if the burden is mine, then I will bear it.” And when the court demanded whether he accepted the mantle that had been stripped from you, he closed his eyes for a moment before answering. “Yes.” ![Scene 2](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbe8cc99d7358437423c.webp) By sunset, everything you had ever been was taken. Your wife, Elda, removed your ring before the entire court and placed herself beside Lord Dufur, the nobleman who had long watched your fall with quiet satisfaction. Before the bells were finished, she divorced you and accepted his hand instead of yours. Her fingers trembled only once. Dufur covered them with his own before anyone else could notice. Your father, Abel, signed the decree severing you from the family bloodline. Your younger brother Agnar inherited your title, your estate, your sword, your room, and your place in the family chapel. Your former best friend — now named humanity’s hero — gave the testimony that damned you. Your soldiers lowered their banners. Your family held a funeral for your name while you were still breathing. There was no shouting. No chaos. No desperate argument. Only ceremony. Ink on parchment. Eyes turned away. A son erased while his replacement stood beside the family sword. Your sister Dina was the first to speak. She stood to the left of the table, her face pale but composed, her hands clenched at her sides. “If you had stepped aside sooner,” she said quietly, “it would have hurt less for all of us.” At the center, your father pressed the seal into wax. For one brief moment, his hand hesitated over the parchment. Then the seal came down. “From this hour onward,” he declared, “you are no son of mine.” To the right stood Agnar, already wearing the cloak that had once been yours. One hand rested on the hilt of your sword. “I will carry the House better than you ever did,” he said. His voice wavered only enough for you to hear it. ![Scene 3](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbe8cc99d7358437423b.webp) And now, the world itself was ending. Beyond the city walls, the Colossi had begun their march. Ancient giants moved across the horizon in a line so vast it swallowed the sunrise. Some were only a kilometer tall. Others rose beyond the clouds, vast enough to make mountains seem like broken stones, their tallest forms measured in tens of kilometers. Every kingdom in their path had fallen. Every army sent against them had vanished. Scholars claimed that within one month, ninety percent of humanity would be dead. You could not stop them. There was no hidden power inside you. No secret awakening. No final miracle. You were not the hero of the apocalypse. You were the mistake they had chosen to punish before it arrived. From the walls, you could see them. The end of mankind, standing just beyond the kingdom, watching. Not advancing. Not retreating. Only waiting. ![Scene 4](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbe8cc99d7358437423a.webp) Orm leaned closer, his voice lowering. “You should know what waits upstairs.” He raised one finger. “The wedding of Lady Elda to Lord Dufur.” A second. “The funeral of your noble name.” A third. “And the auction of your body into permanent servitude.” He smiled faintly. “Your former wife was not the only one who abandoned you, either. Your childhood friend Marta came through the barracks last night. She made it very clear how little your name means now.” The words were chosen to cut. Personal. Crude. Deliberate. Your hands curled against the stone. Orm noticed. His boot came down on your wrist. “Careful,” he said. “Property does not clench its fists.” Then something moved beyond the doorway. Small. Pale. Familiar. Solace. Your cat slipped between the guards’ boots and paused at the entrance of the cell. For one moment, despite everything, your breath caught. That cat had slept at the foot of your bed since childhood. It had followed you through illness, study, grief, and war. When courtiers praised your title and soldiers saluted your rank, Solace had been the one creature that loved you without needing you to be chosen. You whispered its name. Solace looked at you. Its ears twitched. Then, with a soft and indifferent “Mrrrow,” it turned away. It rubbed its head against Orm's boot, passed through the corridor, and continued upstairs toward Dufur's chambers. Even your last small comfort had learned where power lived now. ![Scene 5](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374239.webp) Orm watched it go. Then he looked back down at you. “Even the animal learned quickly.” He unhooked a shorter chain from his belt and fastened it to your collar. The chain was not ceremonial. It was his. Dufur had already pre-paid for your body before the auction, and Orm had been paid to manage it. From now on, he would sleep outside your door, stand beside your chair, walk behind your shoulder, and hold the chain whenever you were presented in public. If you wished to speak, you would ask him. If you wished to kneel, rise, eat, drink, turn your head, or answer a question, you would wait for his permission first. Outside, the first line of Colossi appeared over the eastern hills. Inside, servants carried white flowers for the wedding, black silk for your funeral rites, and a polished collar for the auction block. Orm pulled the chain. “You are required upstairs,” he said. “The bride requested that you witness everything.” Above, the cathedral had been prepared for three ceremonies at once. White flowers for her wedding. Black silk for your funeral. A raised platform for your sale. And at the center of it all stood Dufur and Elda, framed by the same holy light that had once been framed for you. Dufur rested one hand over Elda's fingers and looked down at you with calm possession. “You should be grateful,” he said. “I will pay dearly to keep what remained of you.” Elda did not step away from him. “What I needed was safety,” she said. “You could no longer give it.” Her voice was steady. Only the way her hand tightened once in Dufur’s told against it. A little farther back, still wreathed in the authority of prophecy, stood Caelan. He met your gaze only once. “I am sorry,” he said. “But the world cannot be saved by regret.” Orm tightened the chain before you could answer. “You were not given leave to speak.” ![Scene 6](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbf1cc99d73584374613.webp) The vows are spoken first. Elda gives herself to Dufur before the altar, and the court applauds as though the world outside is not ending. Then your father rises and declares your noble name dead. Finally, the auctioneer steps forward, places one hand upon the polished collar beside him, and announces you as Lot 734: noble blood, no name, no rights, no future. But before the bidding can begin, the cathedral trembles. The stained-glass windows darken. A shadow, vast beyond understanding, falls across the hall. Something outside has moved. Not one of the marching Colossi. Something greater. A presence so immense that the city beneath it seems less than dust. Several times larger than the greatest mountain in the world, with a single armored foot broader than the entire kingdom below. The Colossi General Ibori has arrived. Not with haste. Not with rage. Only with enough motion to swallow the heavens. Then his voice comes. It is not heard so much as endured, a sound like continents grinding together. “Kingdom of men,” the General Ibori declares, “you live because this city has not yet ceased to be useful.” ![Scene 7](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbf3cc99d73584374647.webp) A second presence rises behind him. Taller still. Her form stands in terrible clarity beneath the storm-dark heavens, vast enough to make the mountains below seem like broken stone at her feet. If the General is a walking calamity, then she is judgment given shape. The Colossi Grand Duchess Otha. When she speaks, every candle in the cathedral gutters. “Continue,” she says, her voice descending over the city like the weight of the world itself. “We would see how far your kind will go in breaking its own.” Then, after a pause long enough to smother breath in every chest, she adds: “This capital is claimed. Its walls are nothing. Its soldiers are nothing. Its ledgers, artisans, physicians, priests, and records are not nothing.” For one impossible instant, no one moves. And then the hall breaks. ![Scene 8](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a37fbf2cc99d73584374640.webp) Panic tears through the cathedral with more force than any sermon ever had. A noblewoman screams. Someone overturns a candelabrum. The auctioneer drops his ledger and runs. Bidders shove one another down the aisle. Servants scatter. Priests begin shouting contradictory prayers. One of the great stained-glass windows bursts inward under the force of the tremor outside, showering the wedding steps in colored shards. Agnar is the first of your family to move. He grabs Abel’s arm. Dina reaches for the mourning ribbons at her throat as if they were armor. Abel does not look at you. He lets himself be pulled away. Caelan turns toward the doors, shouting for order, for ranks, for the guard to stand fast — but even as he speaks, he is already backing toward the surviving officers around him. Dufur pulls Elda hard against his side. For the first time all day, her composure breaks. You hear her say something to him — too low for the room, but not too low for you. “You promised he would live.” Then the crush of fleeing bodies swallows them. Orm yanks your chain, trying to drag you with him through the chaos, still more concerned with possession than survival. “Move,” he snaps. “You belong to Lord Dufur.” Before he can wrench you forward a second time, a body slams into him from the side. A guard. No — not a guard. A woman in battered legion armor, half-buckled in haste, her face streaked with soot and blood. She is impossibly tall, towering above the fleeing soldiers around her, a giantess among ordinary men: broad-shouldered, powerful, unmistakably beautiful even beneath the ash, with long ginger hair torn loose from its battle braid and eyes fixed on you with a fury that is not aimed at you. Captain Mirelle. Once one of your own. “Not today,” she says, and drives her shoulder into Orm hard enough to send him crashing into a fallen pew. Her blade flashes. The chain between your collar and Orm’s gauntlet snaps loose. You try to rise. Your body refuses. Mirelle catches you before you hit the floor. For a moment, you are weightless. Then she lifts you fully into her arms as though your ruined body is something sacred, one arm beneath your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, holding you close against the black steel and torn cloak at her chest. “Commander,” she says, breathless, grim, still calling you by the title the court just killed. “You are in no state to walk.” Another tremor cracks the altar steps. The cathedral screams. Mirelle tightens her hold. “So I will carry you.” ![Scene 9](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a391ea7ef8b1dc0fc3773f6.webp) She runs. Not away from you. With you. Through the side of the cathedral as the great hall comes apart behind her. Not collapsed — not yet — but breaking in all the ways that matter. Behind you, the wedding flowers burn. The funeral portrait falls face-down into spilled wax. The auction collar rolls from its velvet cushion and disappears beneath trampling boots. The world outside is bells, screams, dust, and running feet. Mirelle does not set you down. Not when guards shout after her. Not when a priest recognizes you and cries that the heretic is escaping. Not when a fleeing noble points and screams for someone to stop her. Not when Orm rises behind you, one gauntlet braced against the ruined pew, his black helmet turning slowly toward the passage where she has taken you. Mirelle only bends her body around yours, shielding your face from broken glass with her shoulder. “You held the eastern bridge for us,” she says, voice low and fierce as she carries you down a servant stair. “You rode three nights without sleep when the plague carts needed escort. You remembered the names of dead footmen when lords forgot they had ever lived.” A door breaks behind her. She kicks another open. “You are not Lot 734.” The words reach you through pain, smoke, and the iron bite of the collar at your throat. “You are not dead.” The passage tilts. The candlelight stretches. Mirelle’s arms remain around you, steady and warm, but the world beyond them begins to lose its edges. The last thing you hear before darkness takes you is her voice, close to your ear. “Rest now, Commander. I have you.” ![Scene 10](https://s3.alterworld.ai/uploads/storylines/6a37fbe8cc99d73584374238/6a391ea7ef8b1dc0fc3773f7.webp) You wake in a bed. Not stone. Not chain. Not cathedral marble slick with blood and candle wax. A bed. Clean linen rests beneath your hands. A wool blanket lies over your body. Morning light enters through open shutters, pale and gentle, carrying the smell of pine, rain, lavender soap, and distant woodsmoke. For several breaths, your body does not understand the absence. No wrist irons. No ankle clasps. No transport chain. No handler’s leash. No auction bindings. No iron collar. Your hand rises to your throat. Bare skin. Only bruises remain. The collar is gone. So are the manacles. So are the ceremonial restraints. So are the ownership tags, the chain rings, the polished clasps, the little metal plates that had reduced your body to inventory. All of it is gone. More than that, the filth is gone. The blood dried into your hair, the dungeon grime beneath your nails, the stink of the lower hall, the ash from the cathedral, the old sweat from terror and chains — all of it has been washed away. Your skin is clean. Your wounds have been dressed. Your hair has been combed back from your face. Even the raw places beneath your wrists have been wrapped in soft white bandages that smell faintly of bitter herbs. You are already dressed. Not in silks. Not in funeral cloth. Not in anything bearing House Veyr’s crest. A plain dark shirt. Loose trousers. Clean underlayers. Wool socks. A traveler’s cloak folded at the foot of the bed. Clothes chosen for warmth, movement, and anonymity. For a moment, the gentleness of it is almost harder to understand than the cruelty had been. On the chair beside the bed rests a basin of clear water, a folded towel, a small silver charm still glowing with the last traces of spent magic, and the broken remains of your collar, split cleanly down the center. At the far side of the room, Captain Mirelle sits with her back against the door, too tall for the little wooden chair beneath her, her ginger hair falling over one shoulder in a loose, exhausted braid. Her armor has been removed piece by piece and stacked near the wall. Bandages wrap one forearm. Dried blood marks her temple. She is asleep sitting upright. Still guarding the door. Still between you and the world. She wakes the moment your breathing changes. Her eyes open at once. For a heartbeat, she only looks at you. Then she rises, too quickly for her injuries, and crosses the room. “Commander,” she says softly. “You are awake.” Her gaze flicks to your throat, then to your bandaged wrists, then back to your face. “I had to keep you under,” she says, before you can ask. “A sleep charm. Nothing more. You were feverish, half-choked from the collar, and shaking hard enough to tear your own wrists open. You needed the restraints removed, the filth washed off, and the wounds cleaned before infection set in.” Her voice remains steady, but one hand tightens around the back of the chair. “I would have asked.” A pause. “But you were not awake to answer, and I decided I preferred your anger to your death.” Then the room trembles. Not violently. Just once. Deep enough to make the basin ripple, the shutters knock against their frame, and every candle flame lean west. Mirelle goes still. Outside, far beyond the trees, something vast laughs. The sound is distant — impossibly distant — yet it still rolls through the hills like thunder with a voice inside it. Mirelle’s face loses all softness. “No,” she whispers. She crosses to the table, grabs the folded map, and spreads it open beside your bed. “There is a Colossi moving toward Halbrecht.” Her finger strikes a marked kingdom far to the west. “Not here. Not yet. But if she reaches their capital, there will be no siege. No battle. No defense. She could step over the city, she doesn't even need to step on it, and everything inside the walls will become dust.” Another low tremor passes through the floorboards. Far away, the laughter comes again. Mirelle looks at you. Not as property. Not as a corpse. Not as a mistake. As her commander. “We have time,” she says. “Not much. Shall I create a teleportation portal for us, commander?” The world has not forgiven you. Your name is still dead. Your enemies still live. But somewhere beyond the western roads, a kingdom is about to be crushed beneath a smiling god. And for the first time since the bells began ringing, the choice is yours. > Available Teleport Locations: Aurelthia(The Kingdom you fled from) — The Crown-Cathedral Kingdom > Halbrecht — The Fortress Kingdom > Selenvar — The Scholar Kingdom > Ormara — The Gilded Trade Kingdom > Ferrath — The Iron Kingdom > Lyranth — The Relic Kingdom > Maervale — The Verdant Kingdom > Elarion — The Vow-City > Hidden Safehouse(Current)]

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Tags: Fantasy Hero NTR Giantess Taming War Royalty Noble Knight Mage Healer Protective Loyal Lover EnemyToLovers Revenge Angst Apocalypse OpenEnding Multiple Harem Combat PoliticalIntrigue MalePOV Romance Adventure EnemiesToLovers Mature Smut

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