Deep in the mist-shrouded forests of south-east Asia, the agarwood tree bleeds its darkest treasure.

When wounded by storm or blade, it defends itself with a fragrant resin—black as midnight, rich as a prayer smoke.

For 20 years, this sap ferments into oud (/uːd/) : a scent so rare, it was once traded for gold along the Silk Road, worn by caliphs and queens who knew its power to stir the soul.

Today, our perfumers follow the whispers of wild-harvesters—men who read the trees like poets, tapping only the oldest agarwoods (100 years or more) and leaving the forest unharmed. Each drop is distilled in copper until the essence becomes liquid memory: smoky, sacred, and alive with the weight of time.