Sandalure 18

Imagine a temple carved from time itself—where the air is thick with incense and the weight of centuries lingers like a vow.

The first breath is fire and spice: cinnamon, molten and golden, twisted with the earthy bite of nutmeg and the sharp, restless crack of black pepper. This is no gentle welcome—it is a summons, a warning.

Then, the heart unfolds—geranium, lush and green, its floral pulse cut through by the dark, smoky sting of clove. This is where devotion turns to desire, where warmth becomes something closer to hunger.

And beneath it all, the slow, sacred burn of santal—creamy, golden, endless—woven with the damp, primal earth of patchouli. Vanilla lingers at the edges, not sweet, but deep, like the last ember of a ritual fire.

SANDALURE 18 is not worn. It is anointed. A scent for those who walk the line between shadow and light. Step into the flame.