There’s no glimmer or glow to mark the incantation taking hold between them -- Richard’s spellwork is as severe as the rest of him, and in this case, all but indistinguishable from prayer. Raw, healthy material builds its way out of the break at a crawl, virgin wood following the grain to bridge the gap from both sides.

No more than a minute has passed when Richard winds down into a silence that the growth continues beyond, the eerie trickle of cells through a rapid cycle of growth and death just audible beneath the rustle of his breath.

The new wood is a shade or two lighter than the staff around it, not yet having endured the rigors of weather or travel or combat under a mage’s hand, but otherwise seamless. Natural.

He lifts his hands with a hope you weren't expecting something more spectacular glance, and withdraws an easy step, leaving Isaac room to admire or test it as he sees fit.