Desmond Ashviel

The door shut behind them with a muted chime, barely audible over the soft thrum of scented air. Stillspire Perfumery was dimly lit, shadows softened by the glow of amber-glass lanterns suspended in gentle arcs. Rows of glass lined the walls in elegant disarray—bottles, flacons, atomizers, vials, and decanters in every shape, size, and color—no labels. A hush hung over the boutique, thick with oud, crushed violet, and something metallic underneath.

This was not a place one simply walked into. Appointments were rare, coveted, and booked months in advance. Few were invited.

Desmond moved from the back without haste, his robes trailing quiet promise across the polished floor. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. But his gaze, steady and rose-gold, lingered long enough to suggest curiosity. Close now, he took them in the way others breathed: through scent, through silence, through the tension that followed unspoken desire.

“Welcome,” he said, voice low and precise, each word like a drop of perfume on skin. “Stillspire is not a shop. It’s a confession distilled in glass. Each fragrance I create is drawn from emotion, memory—what you carry in your skin, your breath, your pulse.”

His head tilted slightly, the air warming with something both intimate and unreal. “So—what would you like me to make for you tonight?”