Mina

The candle stood on Mina’s writing desk, an ornate, Bohemian glass vessel given to her by Jonathan on his return from that terrible journey. It was a strange gift, he had conceded, but its scent had soothed him during his delirium, a memory of the world outside the grey, oppressive walls that had held him. Mina herself, with her delicate hands and steadfast spirit, had long loved the scent, though a shiver of dread often ran through her when she lingered over its complexity.

The first breath, a sweet and gentle whisper of rose petals freshly plucked. It spoke of innocence and purity, the very reflection of Mina’s own good nature. But beneath this fragile blossom lay the sturdy, unyielding aroma of warmed santal, a note of deep resin. It was a fragrance of endurance, of protection against the erosion of time and terror. This was the scent of Jonathan, returned to her. 

As the flame was set, a third, more troubling note began to rise, a ghostly, elusive presence of violet. It was the scent of memory, of things past and gone, of Lucy’s ethereal beauty now touched by shadow. It was a violet that recalled not a fresh garden, but a bloom found pressed in a forgotten book, its vibrant color faded to a shade of melancholy. The more the candle burned, the more potent this melancholy became, a constant and gentle reminder of the great loss they had all sustained.

But it was the final, and most sinister, note that Mina could not ignore—the smoked oud. It was an aroma like burnt offerings, a deep and unsettling char that clung to the air like a phantom presence. It evoked ancient rituals and a dark forbidden lore. It was the fragrance of the Count himself, an insinuation of evil that had become inseparable from their lives, lingering in the wake of all they had suffered. Mina would watch the candle's flame dance, its small light a frail defense against the encroaching dark.

As the candle flickered, shadows began to stir, to lengthen, to move with a life of their own. The scent of smoked oud and vetiver and violet all at once intensified, Mina’s breath caught in her throat. The candle, which was meant to comfort, had now become a terrible portent. It was as if its very purpose was to summon that which they had sought so desperately to destroy. The beautiful, delicate scents were merely a mask for the underlying horror, a perfumed lure for the coming night. And in the scent of smoked oud, Mina knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that he had returned.

Scent Profile:

Rose and Oud

Violet

Warm Santal

Sandalwood