Byzantium

Byzantium unfurls like a tapestry woven from marzipan and incense smoke, its opening a brazen clash of almond and cinnamon that recalls Turkish confectionery stalls more than perfume counters. The mimosa adds an oddly sunny, honeyed quality that softens the spice's sharpness, creating an effect both comforting and ceremonial. As it develops, heliotrope and honey conspire to push the composition into unapologetically sweet territory—this isn't subtle sophistication but rather an amber-drenched gourmand that wears its heart on its sleeve. The black rose, almost maroon in its depth, struggles to assert itself against the onslaught of vanilla and cocoa bean, emerging as a slightly bitter, wine-dark undertone rather than a clear floral statement.

What's remarkable is how the base manages to prevent this from collapsing into generic dessert territory. The oud here is polite, almost resinous rather than animalic, whilst the Peru balsam and labdanum create a sticky, church-like backdrop that adds gravitas to all that sweetness. White musk rounds everything with a powdery softness that's distinctly retro—think 1990s body products rather than modern clean musks. This is a scent for those who aren't afraid of projection, who want to smell like something rather than nothing. It suits cold weather wanderings through Christmas markets, cosy evenings in, or anyone who's ever thought most fragrances could do with being about thirty percent sweeter. Unashamedly maximal, Byzantium makes no apologies for its excesses.