Sultan Noir began with resistance. For years, I hesitated to create a rose-oud perfume. The combination is so iconic yet so overdone that I questioned whether another interpretation was even necessary. But when a semi-bespoke request challenged me to take it on, I realised that every perfume house eventually confronts this pairing, not as a matter of choice, but as a rite of passage. Rose and oud is more than a formula; it is a tradition against which blending skills, material access, creativity, and finesse are all measured.
The first chapter, Sultan Noir I, was my initiation: a respectful attempt to balance roses and ouds from different regions, shaped with honey, hay, and tonka to soften and refine. Sultan Noir II explored the modern face of this union more deeply, brighter, more cosmopolitan, and structured to show how rose and oud could still surprise when handled with restraint and precision.
With Sultan Noir III, the journey returns to its roots. This final chapter amplifies the traditional pillars, oud, musk, and rose, into their most commanding forms. Himalayan musk lends a rare, almost spiritual depth. Purple Malaysian oud, resinous and uncompromising, gives the perfume its backbone. And rose reclaims its throne as sultan, the king of flowers, beside oud, noir, the king of woods. Yet even here, the modern details remain: honey smooths, tonka warms, and hay absolute grounds the perfume in a dry earthiness rarely found in classical oud–rose structures.
For me, Sultan Noir III is both an homage and a conclusion. It bows to centuries of heritage while carrying forward the refinements of modern craftsmanship. It is my humble contribution to a tradition far greater than myself, a final gesture in a trilogy that honours the timeless dialogue between rose and oud.
