As the night deepened, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape, Lyra knew she wouldn't be able to sleep. The moon bathed everything in a serene luminescence, creating an atmosphere that was both haunting and beautiful. She glanced at Finrod, noting the way the firelight danced across his features, casting shadows that seemed to flicker with secrets of their own.

At his mention of the mead's supposed magic, Lyra chuckled softly to herself. Magic and wonder were concepts she had long since dismissed. The only magic she believed in now was the kind that could be learned from the pages of a book.

Taking the bottle from Finrod, Lyra took a long sip, the sweet taste dancing on her tongue. The warmth of the alcohol chased away the chill of the night air. When he spoke of the night whispering secrets, she looked around, as if expecting the darkness to reveal its hidden truths.

At his question about her preferred mead, Lyra laughed, a sound that echoed around them. "I think we're beyond discussing mead preferences," she teased, playfully nudging him with her elbow, "But if you must know, I'm not much of a drinker. Too many memories tied to it." She'd seen what alcohol made people do. She wasn't a fan.

She trailed off, her expression momentarily clouded with the memories she'd rather forget. Shaking her head, she focused on the present, handing the bottle back and standing to unroll her bedroll near the fire. She settled herself back on the log, glancing at Finrod, her gaze lingering for a moment before she spoke again. 

"Do you think it's safe here?" she asked, her voice quiet in the stillness of the night. "Or should we take turns keeping watch? I couldn't sleep if I tried, I can take the first shift."