As the world slowly righted itself around the, Lyra found herself locked in Finrod's gaze, her heart still pounding from the surreal experience she was now sure they had just shared. She watched as he withdrew his hand abruptly, his movements tense and uncertain, a mirror to the turmoil swirling within her own mind. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air between them. Lyra's lips parted, ready to break the silence, but she hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. Was he experiencing the same confusion and disbelief that she was feeling, or was this all part of some elaborate ruse? 

As Finrod quickly finished the remnants of his mead and rose to his feet, Lyra's suspicions flared to life once more. Was he trying to escape, to avoid facing the truth of what had just transpired? The thought sent a surge of anger coursing through her veins, her guard rising instinctively to shield her from any potential deception.

"I'll get my own," she declared in response to his query, her voice firm as she rose to her feet, her movements deliberate and controlled. With a measured pace, she made her way to the bar, her eyes never leaving Finrod's form as she ordered another drink for herself. She punched herself mentally, realizing she barely had enough money for this drink, and a room for the night.

Returning to their seat, Lyra settled back, her eyes narrowing as she studied Finrod's expression for any sign of deceit. Had he drugged her? She took a slow sip of her drink, the liquid burning a fiery trail in its wake, her senses on high alert as she awaited any additional response from him. 

"So," she began, her voice steady despite the tumultuous storm raging within her, "What do you make of all that?" Her words hung in the air between them, a silent challenge daring him to speak the truth, whatever it may be.